The Courtesan Page 14

  The Lady of Faire Isle. Renard’s mouth curved in a smile that was part rueful, part filled with pride. He and Ariane had kissed each other good-bye in the predawn darkness. And a strained embrace it had been, despite their efforts to pretend otherwise.

  Renard watched as the troop of riders came closer. When they reached the part of the road that meandered past the meadow, Ariane craned her neck to peer in his direction. She smiled and lifted one hand in a farewell salute. Even at such a distance, Renard could detect the aura of sadness that clung to her.

  But he grinned determinedly back and stretched up his arm to wave until the troop of riders and his wife disappeared from view, leaving behind a faint cloud of dust.

  Renard lowered his hand, his smile disappearing into a worried frown. “Ah, chérie,” he murmured. “You still look much too tired and pale to me.” Despite all of Ariane’s protestations to the contrary, Renard feared that she had never recovered her full strength since the ordeal of her miscarriage.

  Although he found himself missing her already, it was as well that she would be gone for awhile. Perhaps the visit to her old home would do her good, get her mind off the obsession that was fretting her to the bone. Give him a chance as well to clear his head and decide what the devil he was going to do about their problem.

  Renard had always been good at masking his emotions, at least until Ariane had entered his life and heart. Now he lived in hourly dread that wise woman that she was, Ariane would read his eyes and uncover his guilty secret, how he had been betraying her for the past nine months. Oh, not with another woman. The woman did not exist who could entice him from Ariane’s bed. But Ariane might find that kind of infidelity more forgivable than what he was doing, something that would be perhaps far worse in her eyes.

  He was preventing her from conceiving a child.

  Digging another nail from the pouch tied to his waist, Renard returned to his task of mending his fence. But every thud of his hammer seemed laden with his nagging guilt.

  Ariane was the daughter of a fabled wise woman, the saintly Evangeline, the previous Lady of Faire Isle. But Renard’s peasant grandmother . . . well, Renard thought with a wry twist of his lips. There was no gainsaying the fact. Old Lucy had been a witch and often of the most wicked kind. Eschewing the gentle arts of healing, Lucy had become an expert in the dark art of poisons and potions designed to hinder the creation of life, not encourage it.

  She had passed on much of her knowledge to Renard, including a certain brew that could render a man’s seed temporarily infertile. Renard had been distilling that potion and secretly taking it for months now.

  He could imagine what Toussaint would have said to him. Much as the old man had loved Lucy, he had ever deplored her dark magic and all she had taught Renard. But what the hell else could he do? Renard thought. He slammed the hammer into the nail so hard, he drove it crooked and was obliged to pause to pry it out again. He would have loved to have a dozen children with Ariane, but not at the expense of her health, perhaps even her life. Renard had tried to avoid having relations with her after her last miscarriage. But despite his wife’s quiet modesty, Ariane could be a damned determined seductress and—Renard reflected with a huge sigh, his flesh was very weak where the woman he loved was concerned.

  Ariane had left him no choice but to resort to the cursed potion. She was fairly killing herself in this quest for a child. But he felt like a complete bastard every month when Ariane’s courses came upon her and she would be crushed with despair, her heart breaking a little more each time. Renard’s guilt only deepened when she would curl up in his arms for comfort, innocently unaware that he was the Judas responsible for her disappointment.

  They could not go on this way much longer, Renard thought desperately. He had to find a solution, even if it meant exploring methods Ariane would not approve of. Renard straightened from his labors and rested his arms broodingly atop the fence post. He feared there was far too much of old Lucy’s witchy blood in him after all.

  But he had made up his mind. He was determined to find some way for Ariane to have the child she craved, all the while protecting her, keeping her safe . . . forever. Renard intended to search out every ancient text of knowledge and spells he could get his hands on. Even, he reflected with a grim set to his lips . . .

  Even if it meant resorting to magic of the very blackest kind.

  Chapter Eight

  Moonlight shimmered over the Louvre, the dank smell of the nearby Seine mingling with the fragrance of roses emanating from the palace gardens. The palace was etched against the night sky like a fairy-tale castle, light and music pouring from the windows of the main salon where the masked ball was being held.

  But the soft beauty of the summer night was lost on Remy as he stood frozen in the shadows, his mind hurtling him back across the years to the last time he’d walked away from the Louvre, accompanying old Admiral Coligny and two of his brother officers back to their lodgings. Memories of his own voice echoed in Remy’s ears.

  “. . . we can’t just leave our king there, surrounded by our enemies,” he had urged. “We have to get him out of there.”

  “Get him out?” young Tavers exclaimed. “His majesty has only been wed a day ago. He’s scarce had time to enjoy the pleasures of his marriage bed.”

  “Marriage bed! It is more likely to be his deathbed and likely the rest of ours as well,” Remy said heatedly.

  “Ah, please, lad.” The Admiral regarded Remy with a weary patience. “No more of that nonsense about Queen Catherine being a witch, plotting to murder us all.”

  “It is not nonsense, sir. If you had seen and learned what I did this summer on Faire Isle—”

  “You should never have set one foot there.” Remy’s friend, Captain Devereaux, interrupted, the burly man shaking his shaggy brown head. “It is said to be a passing strange place, the Faire Isle.”

  “No doubt our good Remy has been sleeping with the fairies,” Tavers chimed in.

  “Or was bewitched by some blue-eyed Circe,” the old Admiral teased.

  Remy was annoyed to feel the red sting his cheeks, the Admiral’s words perilously close to the truth of what had happened with Gabrielle.

  “I think we need to domesticate our Scourge. Find him a wife,” the Admiral declared.

  “A wife. The very thing.” The two others agreed and soon they were all jocularly putting forth suggestions for a possible bride. Only Devereaux seemed to realize the depth of Remy’s fear and frustration. He said soothingly, “You simply need a flagon of wine and a good meal. Come back with me to my lodgings. Claire has not clapped eyes on you for an age and you have yet to see our newest offspring, your namesake. The lad has such a set of lungs on him, he keeps the entire street awake. We’ve taken to calling him the wee Scourge.”

  Remy attempted to smile, but his heart was far too heavy with apprehension to do so. He allowed his friends to drag him farther away from the palace where he had abandoned his young king, trying to quash his fears, to hope that perhaps the Admiral might be right, that somehow all would be well.

  “Remy! Captain?” The low voice whispered close to Remy’s ear and someone tugged impatiently at his arm.

  Lost in his memories, Remy turned, still half-expecting to find Devereaux, the man’s genial face split in a gap-toothed grin. But Dev was long gone, his wife and child as well. Just like young Tavers and the old Admiral. Lost with so many others to the brutality and madness of St. Bartholomew’s Eve.

  It was Wolf who peered up at Remy out of the darkness. “Captain? Come on, monsieur. We must hurry or we will miss the rendezvous.”

  Remy nodded. Shaking off the ghosts of the past, he allowed Wolf to lead him away from the main doors of the Louvre, where the guards scrutinized each new arrival. That was the entry for invited guests and Remy hardly qualified as that.

  He kept to the shadows, following Wolf toward the older portion of the palace. By the use of one ruse or another, Wolf had spent the last few days learning t
he layout of the grounds. The lad darted from tree to bush with a speed and cunning Remy was hard pressed to match, hampered as he was by his new suit of clothes.

  He wore a pair of stiff satin breeches tied off below his knee, his movements further restricted by a matching doublet with sleeves tapering to a tight fit at his wrists. His feet were crammed into a pair of ankle-high leather shoes, far different from his supple worn boots.

  A wide ditch yawned in front of them, the dry remains of the old moat that had once ringed the palace. As Remy scrambled down the slope after Wolf, the short cloak of midnight-blue silk that he wore slung over one shoulder entangled about his arm. Remy shoved it impatiently out of his way.

  He nearly lost his footing, his stiff shoes dislodging a hail of pebbles that seemed to resound through the night like gunfire. Remy and Wolf flattened themselves against the rough stone wall of the palace, tensed and listening. Remy groped reflexively for his sword, but instead of his own trusty blade, his fingers closed over the flimsy hilt of a light dress sword. Wolf was armed with nothing more than a dagger. If any contingent of guards came to investigate the disturbance, he and the lad were done for.

  As moments slowly passed and no one came to raise the alarm, Remy let his hand drop away from his sword and Wolf emitted a deep sigh of relief.

  He leaned closer to Remy to whisper, “Wait here, Captain. I’ll go scout ahead.”

  Before Remy could protest, the lad was off again, stealing along the deep track of the moat. Remy’s mouth clamped tightly in frustration, finding it hard to relinquish control of this mission to a mere lad of eighteen. He had been obliged to place a great deal of faith in Wolf and this mysterious maid who had agreed to help smuggle Remy into the palace. But it was not as though Remy had much other choice.

  Gabrielle had left him none when she had refused to help. He rested his head back against the wall, his jaw tightening as he wondered if she was even now in the ballroom, her soft smiles and bright eyes bewitching his king.

  Very likely she was. In fact, Remy was counting upon it. This masked ball that would enable him to slip into the palace undetected posed a difficulty for Remy as well. With all those disguised faces, would Remy be able to pick out the king he had not seen for this long time?

  Remy did not know for sure. But masked or not, Remy was fairly certain he would be able to recognize the woman who had filled his dreams for these past three years. And where Gabrielle was, so likely would Navarre be. The most dangerous part of this enterprise would be finding a way to have a private word with Navarre without rousing Gabrielle’s suspicions or attracting the attention of the Dark Queen.

  Accordingly he had taken every preventative measure that he could. He had a cap tucked in his belt to cover his hair and when he donned his mask, the black leather would fully conceal the upper portion of his face and as for his jaw—

  Remy raised his hand to stroke his chin, disturbed by the feel of smooth, bare skin. He’d worn a beard ever since he’d been younger than Wolf. Without it, Remy felt strangely naked, vulnerable. Gabrielle had never seen him clean-shaven. The absence of the beard might help to deceive her.

  And if it didn’t? If she guessed who he was, would she seek to betray him? His heart longed to cry out no, that such a thing was utterly impossible. But his head reminded him cruelly of all the other cold facts he had sought to deny about Gabrielle. The bitter truth was he didn’t know her at all or what she might be likely to do.

  “Monsieur? Captain.” Wolf’s voice hissed out of the darkness, rousing Remy from his black thoughts.

  Wolf beckoned Remy to follow. The lad led Remy farther along the rough track of the old moat, pausing to indicate a window near the corner of the old wing.

  “There, Captain,” he whispered. “At nine of the clock, Mademoiselle Lysette will signal us with a candle from that window and lower a rope for you. She will lead you as far as the main stair and you will be able to slip down to the ballroom from there.”

  Remy nodded grimly. It was too late now to be considering the rashness of his actions, but he whispered back to Wolf, “You are sure this maid is to be trusted?”

  “Oh, indeed, Captain. Lysette is a good and loyal girl.”

  “She can’t be that loyal. If she is willing to betray her master by helping some stranger enter the palace for a handful of coins.”

  “Ah, but it was not necessary to pay her anything. She is doing it for me.” Wolf’s teeth flashed in a broad grin. “When I choose, I have quite a way with the ladies and Lysette, you understand, is a girl with a most romantic nature.”

  Leaning closer, Wolf confided in a low voice, “I told her you are a poor but honest knight, desperately in love with an heiress whose cruel Papa is doing his best to keep you parted. Lysette believes she is helping you to rendezvous with your lady, so it would be best if you say nothing about your true purpose for being here.”

  “What a good thing you warned me. While this girl is sneaking me through the palace, I thought I’d confess my plans to help the king of Navarre escape and that I really wouldn’t mind slitting a few throats in the process.” Remy added in a low growl, “I am not a complete fool, boy.”

  “I know that, m’sieur. You are a brave and honest man, but—but—ah, please do not be angry with me when I say you are not exactly adept at this sort of intrigue. No offense, m’sieur.”

  “None taken, lad.” Remy reassured him with a light clap to his shoulder. “You are quite right. I am much better at soldiering.”

  Remy tipped his head to peer ruefully up the night-shrouded walls of the Louvre. “I’d give my soul to be able to mount a proper invasion of this cursed place, rescue my king with cannon and sword.”

  “Sometimes even the boldest of soldiers must resort to deception, like that story you told me about those old Greeks sneaking into Troy. But instead of a wooden horse, you have a mask and a cape.” Wolf tugged at Remy’s cloak until the folds settled back over his right shoulder. “Ah, m’sieur. I know you hate the cloak, but you must remember to wear it thus, over one shoulder as all the fashionable gallants do. It makes you look more dashing.”

  “Like a blasted fop, you mean.”

  “No, you look like a duke, a grand gentleman. If I had such a fine cape to swagger about in, all the demoiselles of Paris would swoon at my feet.”

  “When this blasted affair is over, you can have the damned thing.”

  “Truly, m’sieur?” Wolf exclaimed. Before the lad could express his gratitude in too loud a fashion, Remy clamped his hand firmly over Wolf’s mouth.

  At that moment, the distant bells of St. Germaine L’Auxerois began to toll out the hour of nine. Remy felt a chill ice through him. It had been the bells of that same church tower that had signaled the beginning of the massacre on St. Bartholomew’s Eve.

  Remy dropped his hand from Wolf’s mouth and swallowed hard, wondering if there would ever come a time when something as innocent as the sound of church bells would not make him want to be violently ill. The hard knot in his stomach didn’t ease until the bell stopped tolling. He saw the glow of a candle appear in the window that Wolf had indicated. Remy could make out the silhouette of a girl and his heart sank. If he was not mistaken, his guide upon the rest of this perilous adventure appeared even younger than Wolf.

  Wolf cupped his hand to his lips and emitted a few low barks and a soft whine, an eerily accurate imitation of some stray cur. The girl craned her head farther out the window. Perceiving them waiting below in the darkness, she retreated and in another moment Remy saw the thick cord of a rope slowly snaking its way down the wall.

  So this was it, then, Remy thought, his mouth going dry. In a few moments, he would be back, entombed within the palace among enemies who believed him dead and rotting in his grave and who would be only too happy to remedy their mistake. Back in the presence of the young king he had failed once and could not afford to fail again.

  And back close to the golden-haired woman who had once seemed the best part of his
life and was now no more than a cold-hearted stranger to him.

  As he tugged free the mask that he’d tucked in his sword belt, Remy was annoyed to feel his palms damp with perspiration. He wiped them on the sides of his breeches, then removed his cap to settle the mask in place. The stiff leather that would shield his identity also hindered his vision, making it all too easy for him to be blindsided.

  He was only vaguely aware of Wolf hovering at his elbow as Remy reached out to test the rope. He was relieved to discover that this little Mademoiselle Lysette had been wise enough to anchor it securely and it would bear his weight.

  Before Remy could begin his climb, Wolf clutched at his arm. “Monsieur, wait!”

  Remy twisted his head to observe Wolf through the slits in his mask. Earlier the lad had been sizzling with excitement, but now Wolf had sobered, his thin, sharp face pale in the moonlight.

  “Here, m’sieur,” he whispered urgently. “You must take this with you—for protection.” He thrust something into Remy’s hand.

  Remy lifted the object to peer at it more closely. This was a small canvas sack containing some sort of dried material and suspended from a leather tie. As Remy drew the pouch too near his nostrils, he grimaced, recoiling at the pungent aroma.

  “Damnation! What the devil is this, Martin?”

  “A powerful charm, Captain, a special mixture of herbs, dried goat dung and garlic I learned from my Tante Pauline. You wear it suspended over your heart and it will keep you safe.”

  Remy stifled an impatient groan. “Oh, for the love of heaven, lad—”

  “No! No, truly it works. It will ward off witches, m’sieur.”

  “And everyone else. I need to remain inconspicuous, remember?” Remy shoved the pouch back at him. “I thank you for the thought, Martin, but—”