The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  Miri ran her finger ruefully over her lower lip. Except for that kiss Simon had branded upon her mouth, so heated, so ruthless, her lips had been tender for a long time after he’d gone. Her mouth had recovered but her heart still felt bruised by the memory of Simon’s fierce embrace.

  Blast the man. Why couldn’t he have just offered her his hand? Why had he had to seize her and kiss her as though . . . as though the sky was about to fall and the entire world come to an end? His embrace had not been merely the sad parting of a man who thought it unlikely their paths would ever cross again. No, more like the kind of desperate farewell a soldier bestows upon his sweetheart upon the eve of a battle he has no expectation of surviving. Simon didn’t expect to live to see her again and he could well be right.

  Miri shivered as the images of her dream crept back into her mind, the blows of the cudgels, the dark tide of blood. She wrapped her arms about herself and shook her head in denial. There was no reason to suppose the man in her nightmare had been Simon. She had not even been able to see his face.

  There was no doubt that Simon did have many enemies. He had done his best to make himself a feared and hated man, but he had managed to survive this long, hadn’t he? If only he hadn’t seemed so exhausted and alone.

  But that was not what worried Miri the most. It was that shadow she sensed that had fallen over his spirit, making him no longer care whether he lived or died. Her refusal to help him might well have been the final blow, but what else could she have done? She could not put her family at risk by trusting him again, especially when she was not sure how much she believed his stories of this Sisterhood of the Silver Rose. He had offered her no real proof other than that extraordinary syringe he had called a witch blade, but Miri could only reflect wistfully what a boon such an instrument would be to healers everywhere.

  It had been far easier to credit Simon’s sinister tales on a dark night with the wind and rain lashing at her windows. But in the clear light of day, the notion of a witch’s coven hatching some dire conspiracy against mankind seemed utterly fantastic. The bitter truth was Simon had lied and deceived her far too many times.

  Miri started when something silky brushed up against her ankles. Glancing down, she saw that Necromancer had followed her from the cottage. He prowled about her legs, rubbing his scent against her. With his uncanny instinct for knowing when she was troubled and the source of it, the cat blinked up at her.

  “Forget him.”

  “I am trying.” Miri sighed.

  “Try harder.”

  “Glib advice coming from a feline whose memory extends no further than his last nap, monsieur,” she retorted, giving the cat a playful nudge with her bare toes. But as she returned to the cottage to dress and tend to her morning chores, she made a concentrated effort to banish Simon back to the locked chamber of her mind where she had kept him for so long.

  Once, such workaday tasks as milking her goat, feeding her pigeons, and currying her pony would have filled her with a simple contentment. But Miri completed her chores in a haze of distraction she could not entirely blame on Simon. She had felt restless and unsettled even before his visit.

  Slinging a basket over her arm, she plunged into the forest to replenish the supply of wild roots and berries she used in brewing some of her elixirs. Necromancer prowled ahead of her, darting in and out of bushes, indulging his curiosity over some stray insect or butterfly he spotted.

  She padded along after Necromancer, her toughened soles inured to the bracken beneath her feet. Carefully parting branches that blocked her way, she caressed her fingertips over the rough bark of a stately elm. Once she had been able to feel the thrum of life that pulsed upward from roots buried deep in the earth, the heartbeat of the island itself. Had the ancient magic truly fled? Or had her fingers merely grown too clumsy to sense it?

  She still possessed her ability to whisper through the woods, doing nothing to disturb the peace of the wildlife, a small brown squirrel regarding her quizzically from its perch, the cheerful twittering of the birds undisturbed by her presence. Miri often found it strange to think she had learned this silence of movement not from her daughter of the earth mother, but her far more flamboyant father. The Chevalier Louis Cheney was a knight as noted for his ready wit and booming laugh as he was his valor, a welcome figure in court circles. But Miri had known little of the dashing gallant who cut such a swath in Paris. Her childhood memories were forged of the tall handsome man who had been the center of her small world, her chief co-conspirator and playfellow.

  During those precious summers that Papa had returned from court to visit their island home, how often had they rambled through the woods hunting for fairies or crouched low in the bushes breathlessly waiting for a glimpse of the unicorn.

  “You must be very still, ma petite,” he would whisper in her ear, his dark head bent close to hers. “Even such magical creatures develop a powerful thirst from roving about the island. Keep your eyes fixed there upon the stream and you’ll see him steal out from the trees for a drink.”

  Although Miri had shivered with excitement, she had been unable to refrain from expressing her doubts. “But Papa, neither Ariane nor Gabrielle have ever seen the unicorn. So how will I be able to? I am so much younger and—and littler.”

  “Ah, but out of all the daughters of the earth on this island, you are the one blessed with the gift for seeing what the rest of us poor mortals cannot. You are a bit of a fairy child yourself, my little Miri.”

  Miri wondered if her father had any idea of the impact his words had had upon her. Born before her time, she had been a fragile babe, a delicate child, for a long time small for her age. She had always felt so much weaker and less capable than her strong, clever sisters. It filled her small heart with a fierce pride to think there was at least one gift she possessed, one thing that she could do that Ariane and Gabrielle could not.

  She could see the unicorn. Or had she merely been under the spell of her father’s gift for telling tales, his ability to spin castles in the air with the mere power of his words?

  Although Maman had always smiled at Miri’s excited descriptions of their adventures in the woods, she knew it had worried her practical mother as well. Once when she had believed Miri out of earshot, she had gently admonished Papa.

  “Do you really think it wise to fill Miri’s head with so much fantasy, Louis? Between her beloved animals and her imagination, the child dwells far too much in her own realm. I fear it will make her ill prepared to deal with the real world.”

  Papa had merely chuckled and replied, “A little fantasy never harmed anyone, my far too serious Lady of Faire Isle. The real world, as you call it, can be a damned unpleasant place. The child will learn that all too soon.”

  So she had, Miri thought sadly. She had been but nine years old when her father had set sail on his voyage to the new world, promising to fetch her all manner of extravagant presents from mysterious far-off lands.

  “You just keep watch for my ship sailing home, petite. I’ll be back before you know it. Wait for me . . .”

  And wait she did, long after her sisters had given up hope. A part of her still longed for a time and place that could never come again. An enchanted world where fathers didn’t perish at sea and mothers did not die young. Where sisters were not torn apart and the handsome boy one loved and trusted did not turn out to be a dangerous adversary.

  Her woods were always haunted, but they seemed more so than usual this morning, misted with bittersweet memories. Marie Claire had warned Miri about dwelling too much in the past.

  “This island is no longer any place for you. It holds nothing but memories of a time that is gone forever . . . Leave Faire Isle, go back to Bearn and marry that young man who adores you.”

  Her search for wild roots forgotten, Miri set down her basket. Leaning back against the broad trunk of a tree, she drew forth the locket tucked inside the bodice of her gown, tracing the etching of the wolf gazing longingly up at the moon. Her lips pa
rted in a smile that was half tender, half sad as she thought of her own Wolf, Martin le Loup, with his roguish eyes, trim beard, and sable-colored hair. The last time she had seen him, they had been strolling through the gardens of Navarre’s palace, Martin resplendent in his embroidered jerkin, a short cape swirling off one broad shoulder, like a peacock flaunting his feathers before his much more somber peahen. Overcoming her reluctance to accept the locket, he had fastened it about her neck.

  “It is not as though it is a betrothal ring, Miri. Only a token of—of friendship, a trinket.”

  “A very expensive trinket,” Miri murmured, nervously fingering the braided chain, worrying how much of his hard-won coin Martin had spent. “It is pure silver.”

  “Ah, but not as silvery as your eyes by moonlight. Now that is real treasure.”

  Miri cast him a wry glance. Her dear friend could be a notorious flirt, extravagant and honey-tongued with his compliments. Martin’s hands lingered about her neck, but at Miri’s look, he sighed and drew back.

  Miri fumbled with the catch. When she opened the locket and saw the inscription and the timepiece set inside, she was even more dismayed.

  “Martin, this—this timepiece was a gift to you from the king himself.” A mark of Henry of Navarre’s esteem and gratitude for the dangerous mission Martin had undertaken, spying upon the powerful forces of the Catholic League, who threatened the borders of the tiny Huguenot kingdom.

  “I can’t possibly accept this. If His Majesty were to discover you fashioned his gift into a necklace for me, he might well be offended.” But when she tried to take off the locket, Martin closed his hands over hers.

  “Navarre of all men would understand. He is a great romantic himself when it comes to wooing the ladies. There is only one difference between us. He has been true to many women, I only ever to one. Besides, for what reason does a knight errant strive to acquire such gifts from a king? Only to lay them at the feet of his lady fair, ever trying to prove his worth.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  “Oh yes I do. Your knight has many more dragons to slay, many more quests to fill ere he deserves to win your heart, my lovely Lady of the Moon.”

  Miri smiled ruefully. “Sometimes I think the knight enjoys his questing as much as the prospect of claiming his lady. Have you ever considered that the day you win her, your adventures would be over?”

  “No, that would be the happiest day of my life,” Martin insisted, squeezing her hands. “But in the meantime, I hope that at least my humble gift will insure you don’t forget me.”

  “As if I ever could.”

  “Couldn’t you?” he asked wistfully. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  Miri tugged one hand free to touch his cheek. “And sometimes I think you would be far better off if you forgot about me.”

  Martin shook his head, his eyes darkening with a rare expression, tender and serious. “It would take a mighty spell to make me do that, milady. I have adored you since the moment I first set eyes upon you. I—I know you have suffered a great deal of heartbreak, that you don’t feel ready to become any man’s bride—”

  “And I may never be,” Miri tried to warn him as she had done so many times before.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Martin brushed a kiss against the back of her hand. “I will wait for you forever . . .”

  Forever. Miri tucked the locket back inside her gown, feeling that Martin had already waited long enough for her to emerge from her shadow world of regrets and memories. Despite his overly dramatic expressions, Miri had never doubted his devotion to her, the truest friend she had ever had. He loved her and yes, she believed she loved him. Perhaps Marie Claire was right. It was time for Miri to leave the past behind her, to return to Bearn and bring an end to Martin’s questing. And her own.

  “Miaow!”

  The urgent cry from her cat roused Miri from her musings. She straightened away from the tree, realizing that while she had been lost in her thoughts and memories, she had lost track of Necromancer as well. Her aged cat, accustomed to considering himself a mighty hunter, often disregarded the fact that in these woods, he could end up prey himself.

  Glancing anxiously about her, trying to determine the direction of his yowl, Miri called, “Necromancer?”

  To her relief, the cat burst out of the underbrush, appearing unharmed and unpursued. He raced toward Miri and scratched at her skirts, his thoughts barraging her in a frantic and chaotic jumble.

  “Daughter of the earth . . . must come. It needs your help. An orphan.”

  Miri frowned. “Whatever is in trouble, I hope you have had nothing to do with orphaning it. If you have been after some poor titmouse again—”

  Necromancer’s amber eyes glowered reproachfully. “No foolish mouse or wretched rabbit this time. It is one of your kind. A human child.”

  A child? Miri gaped at the cat, torn between consternation and disbelief. What would a child be doing out here alone in these woods? Before Miri could question him further, Necromancer streaked off again, urging her to follow.

  “Hurry.”

  Miri ran after him as best she could, moving with none of her usual reverence for the woods, impatiently shoving branches out of her way. At least there was some semblance of a path, for Necromancer was leading her down the track to the stream that cut through a large portion of Faire Isle. Miri frequently made her way there to fill her buckets or wash clothes, sometimes just to stare absently into the sparkling waters as she remembered, grieved, and dreamed.

  Necromancer had left her far behind by the time she emerged from the woods and scrambled down the embankment. She spied the cat waiting for her by the flat rock where she was wont to sun herself or lay out petticoats to dry.

  Something else occupied the rock this morning, something bundled up in the folds of a brightly colored shawl. Miri came to an abrupt halt, her heart slamming up against her ribs, Simon’s words returning to haunt her.

  “Human sacrifice. Babes, some scarce hours old, abandoned to die of hunger and neglect. So small, so still and cold.”

  No. Miri could not believe anything so terrible could have happened. At least not here on Faire Isle. Despite her denial, her heart thudded with apprehension as she crept closer. Necromancer prowled nervously about her skirts as she loomed over the rock, but she scarce noticed him, her gaze riveted on the small bundle. So quiet and unmoving.

  Miri’s mouth went dry. Dreading what she might be about to find, her fingers trembled as she reached down to draw back the folds of the shawl. She choked out an anguished cry at the sight of the small face. The babe looked scarce hours old, some of the fluid that had sheltered it in its mother’s womb crusted on the cap of its head.

  Miri laid one finger on its small cheek. It was not stiff and cold as she had feared, but warm. The child was still alive. It stirred beneath her touch, emitting a thin cry.

  Half-sobbing with relief, Miri bent down to gather the babe up into her arms. The shawl fell back enough to reveal that the child was male. Swathing the garment back snugly about the tiny boy, Miri cradled him close, her voice soothing him in a ragged whisper.

  “There now, mon petit. You are safe now, but who could have done such a wicked thing, leaving you here all alone?”

  But Miri already knew the answer to that question, recognizing the bright-colored shawl, having seen it recently gracing the shoulders of a defiant young girl heavy with child.

  “Oh, Carole, what have you done?” Miri murmured. Or more accurately, what had the girl been persuaded to do?

  Miri froze, her breath catching in her throat as she stared down at the object that had been concealed behind the infant, but now sparkled in the sunlight upon the rock. A flower whose petals should have appeared vibrant, velvety, and warm, but instead looked encased in frost, glittering deadly and cold.

  A silver rose.

  Chapter Five

  MIRI HASTENED AWAY FROM MARIE CLAIRE’S EMPTY COTTAGE, peering anxiously down the dusty
lane. The entire town of Port Corsair seemed eerily deserted this morning. She balanced the infant in a makeshift sling fastened about her neck, fighting down a sensation akin to panic. She had been doing her best to quell her fears, keep her imagination from running riot, ever since she had stumbled across that deadly silver rose and realized Simon had been telling her the truth. The evil he had described was all too real and it had found its way to the shores of her island.

  While she had dismissed his warning, the followers of the Silver Rose had already prowled Faire Isle, luring in young Carole Moreau. Miri winced now as she recalled the girl’s boast, a remark Miri had paid little heed at the time.

  “I have friends, very powerful friends who will look out for me.”

  No, not friends, Miri reflected grimly. Witches. Never in her life had she applied such a vile term to any woman, but she could not think what else to call creatures so depraved that they could prey upon the misery and desperation of a confused young girl, persuade her to do something as dreadful as sacrificing her own child.

  Where was Carole now? And what of Simon? When he had left Faire Isle, had he had any inkling his enemies were so close by? Or was it possible he had been taken unaware and—?

  Miri’s chest tightened and she thrust her fears to the back of her mind. There was nothing she could do about Carole or Simon at the moment. Her immediate concern was the babe clutched in her arms. As near as she could tell the tiny boy had suffered no ill effects from his ordeal, but he needed care that Miri could not provide.

  She had to find him a wet nurse and quickly. And she had to locate the child’s kin, Carole Moreau’s aunt and uncle. For both those things, Miri needed Marie Claire’s help. But to Miri’s dismay, the older woman was not at her cottage. She forced herself to remain calm, to think where Marie Claire was most likely to have gone.

  Much as the former mother abbess had often chafed at the restrictions of the convent life, she missed the old routine of her days, the orderly round of devotions. Miri knew that Marie Claire often slipped off to the church to tell her ave beads and pray. Commanding Willow to stay, she left the pony cropping grass by Marie Claire’s gate and dashed off down the lane.