The Courtesan (19 page)

“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—”

“Oh, no, please, m’sieur. You must wear it.” Wolf sought to close Remy’s fingers over the small sack. “To keep you safe from her.”

“I assure you that I intend to keep well clear of the Dark Queen.”

“No, not
her.
The other one, the sorceress who so bewitched you before, the beautiful Gabrielle.”

Remy tensed at the mention of Gabrielle, but he shrugged off Martin’s fears. Gabrielle Cheney might endanger his life, betray him to death or imprisonment, but there was one thing he was sure of. She would never weave her enchantment over his heart again.

“No, lad. I don’t need this. I am quite impervious to her charms.” Remy shoved the small pouch firmly back at Wolf, this time forcing him to take it. “Now you have done your part. Go along with you and wait for me back at the inn.”

“But, m’sieur—”

“No arguments, boy. We settled all this before and a good soldier always obeys his captain.” Remy gave Wolf’s shoulder a bracing squeeze, then a small thrust to send him on his way.

Wolf stumbled back a pace, watching unhappily as Remy started his ascent up the rope, an awkward business for the captain in his slick new suit of clothes, but he managed with his usual strength and dexterity. When Remy had clambered inside the window, he paused long enough to direct one final curt gesture in Wolf’s direction.

“Go!” the captain rasped.

Wolf drew farther back into the shadows, waiting until Remy disappeared from view and the window went dark again. Ignoring Remy’s orders, he lingered, passing the small pouch restlessly from hand to hand.

The taste of adventure had been sweet in Wolf’s mouth up until now, but he was left with nothing but fear for his friend. He would have felt so much better if he could have persuaded Remy to take the amulet. He was
impervious
to Gabrielle’s enchantment, the captain had declared. But if that were so why had Remy spent so many of these past nights muttering the witch’s name in his dreams?

Sighing, Wolf returned the protective charm to the purse fastened to his dagger belt. He knew what Remy expected him to do. Return to the inn and wait. If Remy had not returned by morning, take what remained of their money and flee to safety.

“And have a good life, lad,” Wolf muttered to himself. Remy had not said as much but he knew that was what the captain had meant.

Wolf was glad that Remy was gone and unable to see the mutinous expression settling over his face. A good soldier might obey his captain, but a wolf was not nearly so biddable. He was going nowhere until he saw his captain safely returned.

The salon blazed with a dizzying whirl of color, courtiers clad in a brilliant array of silks, satins, and flashing jewels. Pipes, lutes, and tambouras sounded out a lively trill of music. Their faces safely concealed beneath an assortment of masks, the dancers cavorted about the room, smiling and flirting with an air of unrestrained gaiety.

Perhaps because as yet the Dark Queen had not put in an appearance at the evening’s festivities. Catherine could produce a marked tension at the most carefree event. Even her son appeared more relaxed in her absence. The king of France lounged upon his throne, the dais surrounded by the throng of perfumed and masked young men, his intimate circle of friends all vying for His Majesty’s attention.

But the eyes of most other men were drawn toward a young woman swirling amidst the dancers. Never had Gabrielle Cheney appeared more radiant, her hair swept up into a golden crown on top of her head, her features even more lovely and seductive when partly concealed beneath a silvery half-mask.

Her ivory silk gown was the envy of all the other ladies present. Trimmed with rich embroidery, it flared out over a farthingale, emphasizing Gabrielle’s tiny waist, the daringly low décolletage affording a glimpse of her full, firm breasts. A high wired collarette of lace rose up, framing her slender neck like a fairy’s wings.

She made a regal, graceful figure as she danced, her delicate hand swallowed up in the grasp of a king. Henry of Navarre promenaded at her side, easily identifiable beneath his mask by his thick curly black hair and satyr-like beard.

As they moved forward and back in the steps of the dance, Navarre’s dark eyes glinted at Gabrielle through the slits of his mask, his rapt admiration of her evident for all to see. Gabrielle should have been filled with triumph. Instead she was finding it hard to maintain her bright smiles and Gabrielle knew well who to blame for that. Nicolas Remy. Damn the man. Despite her best efforts he continued to torment her every waking moment. She fought so hard to thrust his image from her mind, but she was sick with fear for him, wondering where he was, what rash action he might be contemplating.

Sometimes Gabrielle felt she had been better off when she had believed him dead. Even the pain of that had been easier to bear than knowing he was somewhere here in Paris, despising her, laying plots that might well get him killed. Nearly a fortnight had passed with no sign of the man and Gabrielle fervently hoped he had abandoned his mad quest to rescue the king. Unfortunately, knowing Remy’s infernal sense of duty as well as she did, Gabrielle seriously doubted that.

The sudden pressure of Navarre’s hand startled Gabrielle back to her surroundings, made her realize she had stumbled out of position. The steady strength of the king’s arm guided her back into the line of the dance.

Henry shot her a quizzical look as he did so, murmuring, “You are very cruel, milady.”

“I—I beg your pardon,” Gabrielle said, deeply mortified as she struggled to regain the rhythm. “I didn’t tread on you, did I?”

“It is far more likely I would step on your toes, ma mie. Great oaf that I am.”

Gabrielle cast him a wry smile. Careless Navarre might be concerning his appearance, but he was a good dancer, his muscular limbs treading through the measures with all the grace of a natural athlete.

Hands clasped together, they glided two steps forward, raised up on their toes in perfect unison, then moved two steps back again.

“No, my fairy queen,” he continued. “When I said you were cruel, I was complaining about the way your thoughts keep drifting from me. Not to another man, I hope?”

Gabrielle was glad her mask concealed the telltale flush that rose to her cheeks. “Certainly not.”

“I am relieved to hear it. I should be devastated to discover I had a rival.”

“Who could possibly rival Your Majesty?” Gabrielle replied smoothly.

The intricate weavings of the dance separated them and Gabrielle found herself momentarily partnered with the Chevalier D’Alisard, his hawk-shaped mask doing little to disguise his plump features. His gallantries were as oily as the palm of his hand and Gabrielle felt relieved when the steps of the dance returned her to her original partner.

“So you have figured out who I am,” Navarre said, resuming their previous conversation as they circled each other. The king pretended to be chagrined, but it was all part of the game.

To Gabrielle, these masked affairs at court were a bit of a farce. Most of the courtiers here were perfectly well aware of each other’s identities, although they furiously pretended otherwise.

Prancing forward and back in tempo with the king’s steps, Gabrielle flashed him her most dazzling smile. “Of course, Sire. How could I fail to penetrate your disguise? There is only one Henry.”

“You are mistaken, mademoiselle. There are several beside myself. Henry, the handsome duc de Guise, and of course, there is Henry Valois, our noble king of France.”

The movement of the dance brought them closer together and Gabrielle murmured, “Perhaps what I should have said is that there is only one Henry of Navarre.”

Henry’s sensual mouth crooked in a rueful smile. “Only one Navarre, eh? I might take that as a compliment except I know how I am described here at court. The kinglet whose nose is bigger than his kingdom.”

Gabrielle slanted him a mischievous glance. “As to that, I could not say, Your Majesty.”

“Because you don’t find my nose so appallingly large?”

“No, because I have never seen your kingdom to compare.”

Another man might have been offended, but Navarre possessed a self-deprecating sense of humor. He flung back his head with a hearty laugh, which caused more than one head to turn in their direction, wondering what Gabrielle had said to so amuse the king.

“Ventre Saint-Gris! What a wicked minx you are, to so tease your poor Navarre,” he said in a tone of mock complaint. When the king swore and abandoned his courtly manners, he was at his most engaging. His Bearnais accent grew thicker, reminding Gabrielle of Remy. She had to duck her head to hide the pang that shot through her.

The dance once more obliged them to change partners. Gabrielle cringed when she felt D’Alisard’s sweaty hand steal about her waist. The next step called for the man to lift his lady off her feet, swirl her in a circle. Grunting and puffing, D’Alisard barely managed with Gabrielle, nearly dropping her in the process. But at least the clumsy interval gave Gabrielle time to compose herself before she was returned to the king.

Navarre’s hand closed possessively over hers as he led her through the next step of the dance. “I called myself ‘
your
poor Navarre.’ Have you nothing to say to that, my lady?”

“I would say that I don’t think any king could be described as poor,” Gabrielle replied lightly. “I would also wonder if you are truly mine.”

“I am and I would show you just how much so, if I ever had the opportunity of being alone with you.” As they circled each other, Henry carried her hand lightly to his lips.