The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

  Cat spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as though it were of no consequence, but the pain of her mother’s betrayal still rested heavy upon her heart. Meg curled her fingers around Cat’s.

  “So your mother despised you for being a witch and my mother hated me because I was not enough of one. Isn’t that strange?”

  “I suppose ’tis. But there comes a time when we must grow past the need for our mother’s love and approval.”

  “When, Cat? How old do you have to be for that to happen?” Meg asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” Cat admitted ruefully. “I’ll tell you when I get there. Now perhaps we had best be getting off to sleep.”

  Meg nodded, nestling deeper under the covers. Cat blew out the candles. She readied herself for bed, stripping down to her chemise. As she was about to stretch out on the pallet, Meg called out.

  “Cat?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep. Not that I am afraid of the dark,” she added hastily. “It is just that some nights my head is too full and—and it would be nice if you rested on my bed beside me. Just for a while until I fall asleep. If—if you wouldn’t mind—”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  Cat groped her way to the bed, lying down beside Meg. The girl nestled closer by degrees until her head rested against Cat’s shoulder. Cat wrapped her arm about Meg, glad that the darkness concealed her worried expression.

  What a confused girl Meg was, trying to sort out the tangled emotions about her mother, struggling with questions about her destiny and fears regarding her abilities that would have taxed a far older and wiser woman.

  The child needed the guidance of a daughter of the earth like Ariane; if Cat could only persuade Martin of that.

  As Cat stroked the girl’s back, she could feel the tension in her thin shoulder blades. “If you are worrying about the Dark Queen coming after you, don’t be. You have both me and your da to protect you.”

  “I am more afraid of the sisterhood than I am of the Dark Queen. That they’ll find me and drag me back to France to be their Silver Rose.”

  “I would die before I’d let that happen.”

  Meg sucked in her breath. “Don’t say that, Cat, please. It—it is what my followers used to promise, to live and die for me.”

  “I am not one of those daft women, Meg. I will be your fianna.”

  “What is that?”

  “The fianna were warriors of old in my country, the special protectors of the high kings.”

  There was silence as Meg considered this. She murmured, “I would rather you would just be my friend.”

  “I think I can manage that as well.” Cat brushed a kiss atop the girl’s head.

  Meg sighed. Relaxing a little, she melted closer.

  “Tell me more about the high kings.”

  Cat smiled and began to speak of the high kings, the mighty Cuchulainn, Brian Boru, and the Red Branch knights, the same stories her father had spun out for her on many a starlit summer night. Taking comfort herself from the tales, Cat wove the old magic until both she and Meg fell asleep.

  THE GOLDEN CROWN PRESSED DOWN UPON MEG’S HEAD, CUTTING into her temple. The ermine robes weighted down her shoulders until she could scarce take a step. She struggled desperately to escape the hands that clutched at her, the sea of pleading eyes and whining voices. “Oh, great queen, restore my youth.”

  “I beg you, mighty sorceress, smite the man who betrayed me.”

  “Please, Your Grace. Raise my sister from the dead.”

  Meg shoved their grasping hands away. She twisted in a frantic effort to escape, only to have her path blocked by another of her devotees kneeling before her.

  The girl looked up at Meg, her bead-like eyes glistening with all the avidity of a hungry rat.

  “See what I have done for you, Your Grace. I lay at your feet my sacrifice.”

  She placed a small bundle in front of Meg and started to undo the wrappings.

  “No, please,” Meg whispered.

  The blanket fell away from the shriveled form of the dead infant. It stared up at Meg with hollow, accusing eyes. When Meg recoiled in horror, the girl cooed, “Nay, do not be distressed, my Silver Rose. It was only a worthless male babe.”

  “No! No.” Meg shrank away, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I am not your Silver Rose. Leave me alone. All of you, just leave me alone!”

  But as she stumbled back, a cold hand fell heavily upon her shoulder. Meg gazed fearfully up to find her mother looming over her. Cassandra’s long black hair was wet and tangled with reeds from the river, her lips blue, her white skin etched with veins. Her dark sightless eyes pierced Meg clean through.

  “We will never leave you alone, Megaera,” Cassandra rasped. “Did you think to elude us so easily? You might have been able to deny me, wish me dead, but you will never be able to escape your destiny.”

  “No,” Meg whimpered. She squirmed out of her mother’s grasp, fighting her way out of the darkness of her dream. Her eyes flew open and she gave a shuddering gasp, her first instinct to cry out for her papa. But she remembered that he had gone out, leaving her with…Cat.

  Meg groped the mattress beside her and found it empty. Raising her head, she realized that Cat had moved to her pallet before the hearth. With the moonlight streaming in the window, she could just make out Cat’s slumbering form.

  But either the woman was a light sleeper or Meg had cried out more loudly in the throes of her nightmare than she had realized.

  Cat stirred, calling out sleepily, “Meg? Are you all right?”

  No, Meg longed to sob and beg Cat to return to her bed and cradle her close again. But she was ashamed, feeling as though she had already behaved like enough of an infant for one night.

  So she held herself very still, forcing herself to breathe regularly and feigning slumber until Cat rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Realizing her face was damp with tears, Meg dashed them aside. She didn’t doubt that Cat would have been kind and consoling if Meg were to tell her about the dream. But Cat was so brave and bold, she could never be brought to understand.

  “Your destiny is in your own hands,” she would insist.

  How Meg wished she could believe that. But she feared that she would never be free of her nightmares unless she could find a way to peer into the future herself and see that her mother was wrong.

  Shifting onto her other side, Meg squinted through the darkness toward the shadowy outline of the great dragon tapestry. The arras concealed the loose panel in the wall, Meg’s most secret hiding place.

  She had lied to Cat, Meg thought with a twinge of guilt. Another legacy from Maman. Avoiding her mother’s constant probing, Meg had learned how to distort the truth and mask her emotions.

  Although in this instance she had not so much lied to Cat as omitted telling her everything, Meg consoled herself. When she had described the encounter with Finette, Meg had neglected to mention that there was one other thing she had acquired from the demented woman besides the syringe.

  The Book of Shadows.

  Tucked in its hiding place behind the arras, the ancient volume seemed to call to Meg, whispering of all its dread secrets for parting the veil between the living and the dead. If she could conjure up Nostradamus the way Maman used to do…

  She recalled the ritual with the black candles, the ghostly face rising from the mists in the copper bowl, the sepulchral voice of the old man’s spirit, so angry at having his peace disturbed.

  Meg trembled, knowing she lacked the courage to attempt such dark magic. At least not yet, when there was a less terrifying, less dangerous way of peering into her future if she was clever and skilled enough.

  But she would require a certain object and for that she must rely upon the same person who had helped her before, procuring the materials she had needed for her spyglass. Not Aggie, as she had told Cat. That had been an outright lie. Meg winced, but her conscience was soothed as she though
t of her particular secret friend, his voice and his face like those of an angel.

  Closing her eyes, she conjured up an image of his golden hair and his handsome visage. Her heartbeat quickened and her cheeks warmed as she murmured his name softly to herself.

  “Sander.”

  Chapter Nine

  “MERDE!” MARTIN BREATHED, ENTIRELY FORGETTING HIMSELF. He nearly dropped the candle, hot wax spattering his hand as his gaze roved about the chamber. The candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows over rough stone walls lined with shelves holding jars and bottles filled with all manner of murky liquids.

  By far the most alarming was the table in the center of the room, the oak surface draped with a bloodred cloth gilded with stars, pentagrams, and other mysterious-looking symbols.

  The objects placed atop the table were equally disturbing, a mortar and pestle, a dusty old book, a set of scales, and a small iron cauldron.

  Martin’s blood iced in his veins. “What the devil is all of this?”

  Ned staggered into the room. He clapped Martin on the shoulder and smirked.

  “Magic, my good man. Sorcery.”

  Jane stood on the threshold, refusing to come any farther. She looked pale with fear, rapidly making the sign of the cross, and Martin didn’t blame her.

  It had been years since he had blessed himself but he did so now. During his youth he had possessed a healthy fear of all things supernatural, often fashioning himself charms for protection against witches.

  After he had met the Cheney sisters, he had learned more of the true nature of wise women, how much of the so-called ancient knowledge could be good, Ariane’s gift for healing, and Miri’s extraordinary ability to communicate with animals.

  But he had also seen the darker side of magic through Cassandra Lascelles, with her seductive perfumes and cursed medallions, her hellish skill in conjuring the dead and drawing out a man’s thoughts with but a chilling touch of her hand.

  He had experienced much that he never wanted to experience again or for Meg to, either. Especially not Meg. And now he was surrounded by everything he had tried to protect her from, everything he had sought to cut out of her life.

  His hand shaking a little, Martin set the candle down upon the table, his eyes drawn to the dust-covered tome. He had been told there was only one Book of Shadows, one compilation of the worst of the ancient knowledge. But there were other old texts that could be dangerous enough.

  Martin looked at the book and shuddered, unable to bring himself to crack the cover. Anger flashed through him and he spun around, seizing Ned by the front of his doublet.

  “You damned young idiot. Do you have any idea of the kind of dark power you are meddling with? How cursed dangerous all this stuff is?”

  Ned blinked, momentarily stunned by Martin’s assault. He scowled and struck Martin’s hands away.

  “There is nothing dangerous or sinister about my workshop. Bigod, you—you sound just like m’sister.”

  “It is true,” Jane spoke up in a distressed voice. “I have tried to warn him so many times—”

  “Bah! You’ll both sing another song when I succeed.”

  “Succeed? Succeed at what?” Martin demanded.

  Ned swayed on his feet, stealing a drunken glance around him as though the walls possessed ears. Leaning closer to Martin, he whispered, “The philosopher’s stone.”

  “What?”

  “I am trying to create the philosopher’s stone, so I can turn lead into gold. I nearly did it once. When I do, I’m going to be fab-fabulously wealthy.”

  Martin stared at him, choking back an outbreak of hysterical laughter. That was what his lordship was doing down here?

  Turning back to the table, he flipped the cover of the book open, reading the title.

  The Art of Alchemy.

  The book might be dusty, but it wasn’t old, just one of those cheap texts that could be picked up for shillings at the Leadenhall Market.

  Martin expelled a deep breath. No treason, no witchcraft, no sinister plot to use dark arts against the queen. Only a bored young nobleman playing at being a magus. If there was one thing Martin’s acquaintance with the ladies of Faire Isle had taught him, it was how to tell the difference between true magic and utter nonsense.

  He closed the book, feeling so giddy with relief, he had to suppress an urge to scoop Lady Danvers up and give her a reassuring hug.

  The poor woman still hovered in the doorway, fingering the gold chain of her crucifix and looking sick with apprehension.

  Martin smiled at her. “Your brother is right. He is not doing anything dangerous.”

  “Haven’t I told her that many times?” Ned rocked back and forth on his feet. “She’s like a frightened rabbit. But women don’t understand about magic. They’ve got no head for—for—”

  Ned trailed off, his complexion turning a greenish hue. “Ohhh. Think I’m going to be sick.”

  Jane’s timidity vanished. She darted past Martin and fetched the cauldron in time to prevent Ned from retching all over his elegant shoes.

  JANE DREW THE COVERS ABOUT HER BROTHER, RELIEVED TO have Ned tucked up in his bed at last. His valet worked quietly in another part of the room, folding His Lordship’s discarded finery into the wardrobe chest. Timon was a solemn, dependable man and a good Catholic. Jane valued him for his discretion. She wished she could be as sure of all her other servants.

  It had been so long since Ned had flown into one of his rages. Jane could usually recognize the warning signs and defuse her brother’s temper. But the message from the queen had caught her unawares. If only she could have intercepted the queen’s messenger first and relayed the bad tidings herself. She could have softened the blow.

  Jane tenderly stroked Ned’s brow. Poor boy. Her Majesty had so cruelly disappointed him. Ned stirred beneath her touch, his face waxy and pale. His eyes opened to narrowed slits and he whispered, “Sorry, Jane. So sorry. I disgraced you tonight.”

  A tear leaked from his eye. “Such a worthless scoundrel. All I bring you is heartache.”

  “Nay, hush, Ned.” She feathered away his tear with the tips of her fingers, just as she used to when he was a small boy.

  “Butterflies, Neddie. Butterflies come to drink away your tears.”

  “You are as ever my one joy,” she assured him. “None of this was your fault.”

  “But—but you must be vexed with me for showing Wolfe the s-secret room.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said softly. “But I daresay it will all come right. I will see to Master Wolfe. Now you must try to sleep.” She bent and brushed a kiss against his brow.

  “Dear Jane. So kind. Like a mother, always looking out for me,” Ned mumbled, his eyes drifting closed.

  “And so I always shall, little brother,” Jane vowed silently, compressing her lips in a steely line. Leaving her brother to Timon’s care, she tiptoed out of the room.

  When she reached the top of the stair, she could see Marcus Wolfe waiting for her in the hall below. He paced restively, his cape swirling off one strong shoulder. The candles’ soft glow played over his rich sable hair and trim beard.

  To Jane’s dismay, she felt her heart miss a beat. She was far too old to go all fluttery over a man she knew little about except that he had saved her life and had once been an actor. Hardly a reputable occupation, but it would not be the first time she had been charmed by a rogue.

  Would she ever be able to escape the memory of her past sins, the grand folly of her youth? She’d been but fourteen when she had become wildly infatuated with the handsome young groom in the Earl of Shrewsbury’s stable.

  “Your passionate nature will lead you to disaster, child,” her old nurse had scolded. And Marie had been right. The evidence of that lay buried in an obscure churchyard, a little girl who had mercifully been stillborn.

  If all the religious orders had not been dissolved in England, Jane supposed she would have bundled off to a convent. The only other alternative had
been a respectable marriage.

  Ned might deplore the fact that she had been forced to wed a sickly boy like Richard Arkwright, but Jane herself had been made to see the sense of it. A callow youth would be much easier to deceive into thinking his bride still a virgin.

  Poor Dickon, Jane thought. He had never noticed much beyond his constant ailments and complaints. He’d perished from a bout of tertiary fever during the first year of their marriage. By the time she had wed her second husband, the wealthy wine merchant, Sir William Danvers, Jane had been a different woman entirely. Sober, sensible, dutiful, the fires of passion and rebellion long forgotten until recently…

  Taking a moment to compose herself, Jane lifted the hem of her skirts and traipsed solemnly down the stairs. Wolfe glanced up at her approach. He stepped forward to greet her at the foot of the risers and smiled. Not his roguish grin but that warm expression that threatened to melt even the most resolute woman inside.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, my brother is asleep at last. He is well, or at least he will be until he wakes tomorrow with—”

  “I misspoke myself. I meant to ask, are you all right?”

  Unaccustomed to having anyone inquire after her welfare, Jane scarce knew how to answer. All she could do was nod.

  He reached out to take her hand. She should not have allowed him such liberties. But it felt so good, her skin clasped against his warm hard palm. She let her fingers linger in his grasp a moment longer than she should have before drawing away with a nervous smile.

  “Oh, Master Wolfe, I can’t imagine what you must be thinking—.”

  “I think nothing except that your brother had too much to drink, something that can happen to any of us.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding, but I could see how disturbed you were by Ned’s strange pastime down in the cellar. I have long been troubled by his interest in—in sorcery.”