The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  Her mother pursed her lips. “How many times do I have to explain that as well? Male children are of no use to the coven. I realize abandoning them seems cruel to you, but the same thing has been done to helpless infant girls for centuries.”

  “But how does that make it fair to treat little boys the same way?” Meg argued. “It—it just makes two bad things instead of one. And if this is what must be done to make me queen, I don’t want to be.”

  Meg realized at once that she had gone too far. Cassandra’s hand tightened on the medallion so hard, her knuckles turned white. Meg could feel her mother’s rage pulse through her own amulet, like a hot searing knife piercing Meg’s heart.

  She clutched her chest and cried out, sinking to her knees, almost dizzy from the pain. “Maman! P-please don’t.”

  “Never let me hear you say anything like that again,” Cassandra grated.

  “I won’t, Maman. Milady! Please . . . please stop,” Meg sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Cassandra released her medallion, letting it dangle back around her neck. Meg’s pain eased as though the knife was being inched from her heart. She cowered at her mother’s feet, weak and trembling.

  Cassandra bent down, reaching out until her hand came to rest atop Meg’s head. Her wrath spent, she looked suddenly drained and exhausted.

  “Oh, child, why do you force me to punish you this way?”

  She dragged Meg up and into her arms, holding her so tight Meg could hardly breathe. But she was so hungry for any scrap of affection from her mother, she sniffed back her tears and endured the bruising embrace without protest.

  Cassandra edged back until she struck the chair. She sank down into it and did something that shocked Meg, something she could not ever remember her mother doing before. She drew Meg onto her lap and held her close.

  Meg scarce knew how to respond. Cautiously, she rested her head against her mother’s shoulder. Cassandra trailed her fingers over Meg’s face until she found her tears and wiped them brusquely away.

  “Megaera, you have had so little experience of the harshness of life. That is my fault. I have protected you far too much in ways that I was never sheltered as a child. Did you know that I grew up here in this very same house?”

  “N-no.”

  “I did, but unlike you, I did not sleep in any lovely bedchamber like a pampered princess. I spent most of my years here confined to the hidden room below the house.”

  Meg lifted her head to gape at her mother. When they had first moved to the house, Maman had shown her the secret passage behind the aumbry in the great hall. Should the coven ever be surprised by witch-hunters or the Dark Queen’s soldiers, Meg was to flee down those stone steps and hide, but she shuddered at the prospect. The chamber below was dark and cold like a dungeon, infested with spiders and the occasional rat.

  “You lived in that awful hidden room? But why, Maman?”

  For once her mother did not rebuke her for failing to call her milady. Cassandra’s face was clouded with memories and judging by the crease in her brow, they were not pleasant ones.

  “I had to hide from the witch-hunters. They raided this house, capturing my mother and my three sisters. Do you know what witch-hunters do to sorceresses?”

  “Yes,” Meg quavered. Finette delighted in telling her lurid stories of the fate of captured witches and always right before bedtime so that Meg’s dreams were haunted with dungeons, women screaming in pain as their arms were racked from their sockets, their thumbs crushed, their fingernails ripped out.

  “Sorceresses are tortured until they confess and give up the names of their friends. Then they are all burned at the stake.” Meg shivered. “Alive.”

  “That is right, and out of all the women in my family, only I escaped such a dire fate.”

  Meg pondered this, thinking of her mother’s most recent séance, which had somehow gone wrong. How pale and frightened Maman had looked when that other spirit had appeared, the one Cassandra had called . . . Mother.

  Had that shrill voice and clawlike hand belonged to Meg’s own grandmother, a woman she had rarely heard of until now? If that was true, why was her grand-mère so angry and accusing, as though she somehow blamed Cassandra for her terrible fate?

  Cassandra was not inclined to discuss her past or answer any questions about the family Meg had never known. But seated upon her mother’s knee with Cassandra absently stroking her hair, Meg was emboldened to ask. “What were my grandmother and aunts like?”

  Cassandra frowned as though taken aback by the unexpected question. Then she shrugged. “They were sorceresses, although not as skilled as me. I was the best of all of us, even without my eyesight.”

  Meg recalled troubling whispers she heard amongst her followers, rumors regarding her mother’s blindness. She ventured timidly, “Maman, I—I have heard some of the women say that—that my grandmother made a pact with the devil. She traded your eyes so that you could have the gift of necromancy.”

  “A foolish tale,” Cassandra said, much to Meg’s relief.

  Playing idly with a strand of Meg’s hair, she continued, “But your grandmother was responsible for the loss of my eyes. All because she loved my father, the bishop, more than she did me.”

  “My grandfather was a bishop? But isn’t that a holy man? I didn’t think they were supposed to have wives.”

  Cassandra’s lip curled in an ugly sneer. “My mother wasn’t his wife and my father was far from holy. My mother, my sisters, and I were his eminence’s shameful secret. Although he gave us this fine house, he had to skulk here to visit us, which he did infrequently. But whenever he deigned to come, the entire world stopped for my mother. She was consumed with pleasing him. So much so, the night that I was sick with scarlet fever, she neglected me for his bed. That is how I came to lose my eyesight and I never forgave my mother for that.”

  Meg squirmed, uncomfortable with these confidences, only able to understand part of what Cassandra was telling her. But she could feel her mother’s bitterness and pain. Impulsively she hugged Cassandra, wishing things could have been different for her mother, for herself as well.

  How much more pleasant it would have been to return to Paris if, instead of this house full of demanding half-mad women, she had been greeted by her grandparents. Not some cold bishop and a witch, but gentle, affectionate married grandparents who would hug her and call her Meggie, welcoming her to their house.

  And her father would be there, too. Not a king perhaps, but still handsome and charming. He would be terribly in love with Maman and then maybe she would forget about conquering France and be happy just to—

  “Stop it!” Meg winced as her mother’s nails dug into her shoulder.

  “Damn it, girl. I know what you are doing. I can read you like an open book.”

  Meg cringed. Caught up in her daydream, she had forgotten her mother’s ability to discern her thoughts through touch. Cassandra gave her a hard shake.

  “I hate this habit of yours. This penchant you have for losing yourself in pretty dreams to escape the real world.”

  You do the same thing, Maman. Only you use a bottle of whiskey.

  The resentful thought popped into Meg’s head before she could suppress it. Cassandra sucked in her breath with a furious hiss. She dealt Meg a ringing slap that caused her eyes to water. She shoved Meg off her lap. Meg tumbled down, her hip hitting the floor with a jarring thud.

  She sat up slowly, rubbing her throbbing cheek and blinking back fresh tears. She felt a stab of some emotion so foreign, it took her a moment to understand what it was. Anger.

  But the emotion fled before her usual fear as Cassandra sprang to her feet. Meg’s hand flew to the medallion suspended about her neck. She held her breath and braced herself to be punished.

  Although Cassandra’s lips thinned, she made no move to reach for her own amulet. “Enough of this nonsense,” she declared. “It is time you were about fulfilling your duty to me and the rest of your courtiers.”
/>   Cassandra fumbled with the belt that held her chatelaine and produced a heavy iron key. “Here. Go fetch the Book of Shadows.”

  Meg picked herself up off the floor. She accepted the key from her mother with shaking fingers and went to unlock the small chest beside her mother’s bed. It contained only two objects. A heavy signet ring bearing the letter C and a book no bigger than Nourice’s bible had been.

  The dread Book of Shadows looked so harmless, an old volume with yellowing brittle pages bound together by a worn leather cover. But as soon as Meg lifted it into her hands, it was as though the Book took on an eerie life of its own. She could feel the pulse of its dark lore in some strange way that repelled and called to her.

  Meg carried the Book over to the table and laid it down, nervously wiping her hands on her gown. Cassandra had retrieved her walking staff. Using it to test the path before her, she made her way to Meg’s side.

  “What do you want me to work on today, Maman?” Meg asked bleakly. “The spell to restore your eyes?”

  “If you were any kind of daughter at all, you would have already mastered that,” Cassandra replied scornfully.

  Meg held herself very still, seeking not to betray her secret by the slightest whisper of breath. She had mastered the spell some time ago, but for Maman to have her sight restored, another person would have to surrender theirs. Cassandra would have no qualms about sacrificing someone else, but Meg quailed at the thought. Perhaps her mother would not be so angry or bitter if she could see, but the cost was still too high.

  How she longed to beg Cassandra, “Maman, let’s get rid of this awful book, forget all these mad plans and schemes before something really bad happens. Let’s go back and live in our pretty little cottage in Dover. I would take good care of you. I swear I would. I would be your eyes just like Cerberus was.”

  But to give voice to such a plea would only elicit more of her mother’s wrath, so Meg swallowed her words. She was getting better at concealing things from Cassandra, a growing power that both thrilled and frightened her.

  “Forget about the spell to restore my eyes for now,” Cassandra said. She startled Meg by suddenly demanding, “Do you know what a miasma is?”

  “Y-es,” Meg replied nervously. “Nourice explained it to me when I overheard some stories about the Dark Queen. She said a miasma is a poisonous mist that—that makes people go mad, want to hurt each other, and only someone as wicked as Queen Catherine would ever think of using such black magic. Only a miasma is so dangerous and can get so far out of a sorceress’s control, even the Dark Queen no longer meddles with it.”

  “Mistress Waters told you all that, did she?” Cassandra murmured with a frown. “The woman was a great fool and I believe I forbade you to ever mention her to me again.”

  Cassandra ran her fingers over the table until she found the Book of Shadows. She thumped her hand down on the cover. “This book is said to contain all the most powerful spells known to the daughters of the earth. There has to be a miasma in there somewhere. I want you to find it, translate it for me.”

  Meg stared at her mother in consternation. This was by far the worst thing Cassandra had ever told her to do. “B-but why, Maman? What use would you have for such a terrible magic?”

  “Our revolution moves too slowly. I intend to hasten events, but that is all you need to know at the moment. Just do as I bid you.”

  Meg gripped her hands tightly together. She couldn’t . . . she wouldn’t, but she did not dare to refuse her mother outright. Desperately seeking some way to avoid the alarming task, she hedged, “Even if the book has such a spell, it—it will be very difficult and it is already so late. Could we not go down to supper and then tomorrow—”

  “There will be no supper for you or breakfast either. You will remain locked in here until you find a way for me to brew a miasma, stronger and more potent than anything the Dark Queen could conceive. Do you understand me, child?”

  Meg’s mouth thinned into a mutinous line. Her mother could hardly keep her shut up in the tower until she starved to death, could she? But as she studied the grim determination in Cassandra’s face, she was not so sure.

  “Yes, milady,” she whispered.

  Gripping her walking staff, Cassandra made her way to the door. She paused on the threshold, long enough to warn. “I don’t want to have to punish you again. So don’t fail me, Megaera.”

  “Yes, milady,” Meg repeated. She slumped down at the table, staring at the book, her chin sinking despondently on her hands. Only after the door had closed and she was sure her mother was out of earshot did she dare to add rebelliously:

  “But my name is Meg.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  SIMON REINED ELLE IN AFTER A HARD GALLOP, SLOWING her to a walk as they left the main road and headed down the lane leading through the woods. Little more than a narrow track, the path was often impassable in the winter or after a heavy rain, wagon wheels tending to stick in the mud.

  The drought had rendered the path dry, the grooves left by the farm carts hard and baked deep into the earth. But at least the trees offered some shade from another afternoon of blistering sun.

  Elle was sweating a bit, but her recent run had done little to tax her endurance or her speed. Simon had had to hold the mare back to keep her from racing full out or Miri would never have been able to keep pace. Although Samson possessed more stamina than Elle, the stolid gelding would have been left in the dust had Simon given Elle her head, a fact that had worried Simon.

  When they had saddled up in the Maitlands’ barn that morning, he had urged Miri to trade mounts with him. Elle might be skittish with anyone else, but she would have allowed Miri to ride her. Miri however had adamantly refused.

  “No,” she had insisted. “It will make Elle unhappy and jealous to see you astride another horse. Even if I try to explain it to her, she’ll still think she displeased you, be afraid she did something wrong.”

  But the mare’s hurt feelings had not concerned Simon so much as Miri’s safety. Should they be overtaken by any danger on the road, he had wanted to make sure Miri could get away, especially considering his concern that they were being followed. Not long after they had left the Maitlands’, Simon had realized his apprehensions of the night before were justified.

  They were being followed, by a trio of mounted riders, barely visible on the road behind them, sometimes disappearing for miles at a stretch and then reappearing. The trio seemed to have vanished when he and Miri had paused to rest in the last village. But once they had taken to the road again, Simon spied the familiar silhouettes behind them, never gaining, but never falling back either, so persistent that he was left in little doubt they were being pursued.

  The trio were not agents of the Silver Rose, that much was certain. It was broad daylight and the riders were men. Growing weary of this game of cat and mouse, Simon had given Miri the signal and they had taken off at a swift gallop. Simon was familiar enough with this part of the country that they were able to lead their pursuers on a difficult chase, over hills, through fields, across a narrow stream, finally striking out on this worn path through the woods.

  Urging Miri to go ahead of him as they rode deeper into the trees, Simon fell back. Slewing round in the saddle, he glanced behind him. All was quiet except for the clopping of Elle and Samson’s hooves, the faint rustle of a breeze through the branches, and the racket of a determined woodpecker hammering away at one of the trees.

  Simon saw nothing but the undisturbed stretch of shaded path. They had managed to outstrip their pursuers for the moment, but he didn’t congratulate himself too heartily. He suspected the persons trailing him and Miri had no real wish to overtake them. Simon had finally glimpsed enough of the first rider to guess his identity and if he was right, their pursuers likely knew where Simon was headed. These woods marked the boundary of the modest holdings Simon had received as a gift from the king.

  Miri slowed Samson until Simon caught up to her. The path was barely wide en
ough to let them ride abreast and her knee brushed against his. Peering worriedly at him from beneath the brim of her hat, she asked. “Do you think we have lost them?”

  “For now, but it scarce matters. If those men are who I think they are, they know where I live. The Dark Queen is quite familiar with the property her son gave me.”

  “So you believe those men work for Catherine?”

  “I thought I recognized Ambroise Gautier in the lead. It would make sense for the Dark Queen to have me watched. I should have expected as much.” Simon added wryly, “Her Majesty is not the most trusting soul.”

  Miri patted Samson’s steaming neck. “What are we going to do, Simon? If we do manage to find the Silver Rose’s hiding place, we will lead Catherine’s agents straight to her and the Book of Shadows.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll figure out some way to shake Gautier off before that happens. Come on. We’re almost there. My place is only about a mile farther past this wood.”

  Simon nudged his horse onward and Miri did likewise, the pair of them falling silent as they continued on through the trees. Matters had been a little awkward between them ever since they had awakened from a night spent in each other’s arms, as warm and familiar as though they had become lovers. Miri had blushed, drawing away from him and he had been as tongue-tied as a raw boy after he had just tupped his first maid. He would have found it easier if they had made love instead of what they had done. There had been something too intimate about sharing those whispers in the dark, confessions, memories, and emotions he usually kept shoved down deep inside him. It was a devil of a lot easier to strip the body naked than it was the soul.

  And yet, he didn’t feel as exposed and vulnerable as he would have expected this morning, although he was damned tired. He hadn’t gotten much rest. After he had comforted Miri over her nightmare and coaxed her back to sleep, he had lain awake for a long time.

  The soft warmth of her body pressed so close to his had been a kind of exquisite torture, rousing him to a state of painful erection. He’d had to fight hard to check his desire, keep his hands from roving where they shouldn’t. Beyond his physical ache for Miri, he had savored the feel of her head snuggled so trustingly against his shoulder, the light rise and fall of her breath. He had strained to keep awake, not wanting to let a single sweet moment escape him, because he knew he’d never hold her like that again.