The Courtesan (28 page)

Fortunately, Catherine had finally secured herself a reliable spy. One of the last persons that the Lady of Faire Isle would ever suspect . . .

Chapter Twelve

T
he bonfire blazed in the clearing atop the cliff, the flames casting leaping shadows over the circle of dolmens, the mysterious ring of standing stones that seemed as old as Faire Isle itself. The massive, timeworn rocks strained upward to touch the night sky with its sprinkling of stars and traces of cloud drifting across the face of the moon.

Beyond the ring of stones and the sparse line of trees, the land fell away into darkness. Far below at the base of the cliffs, the surf pounded against the rocks on this wilder, less inhabited side of the island. But within the ring, the bonfire gave off a cheering light, as did the scattering of torches embedded in the ground. Their glow reflected on the women who had gathered in the clearing, some seated on makeshift benches of fallen logs, others on the ground, feet tucked demurely beneath their skirts.

They chattered amongst themselves, waiting for the meeting to begin, many stealing awed glances in the direction of the flat altar rock where the Lady of Faire Isle sat enthroned. Ariane wished they could have held these councils in a less melodramatic setting, back at Belle Haven, sensibly seated on proper chairs, passing out mulled wine.

That would have likely disappointed many of these wise women, who had traveled so far and were meeting the Lady of Faire Isle for the first time. She studied the sea of faces that surrounded her. Many of these she recognized from right here on the island, women she had known all her life . . . the ribald apothecary, old Madame Jehan, with her straggling gray hair, the stately Marie Claire, abbess of the island’s convent of St. Anne’s, Marie Claire’s lay servant, the strapping Charbonne with her boyishly cropped milk-white hair. Others, like the prim Hermoine Pechard and the buxom Louise Lavalle, were exiles from Paris owing to having run afoul of the Dark Queen.

But word of these council meetings had spread, drawing in daughters of the earth who were entirely new to Ariane. Most were from France, but a handful hailed from as far away as Spain, Portugal, and Italy. There was even a pair of English sisters, Prudence and Elizabeth Waters, and one Irish girl. Hooded in a dark cloak fastened with a brooch of Celtic interlacing, she tapped her foot with impatience for the proceedings to begin.

But there were two daughters of the earth whose presence was markedly absent. Her own kin. Ariane’s eyes swept the shadows beyond the ring of stones for the approach of a tall young woman with white-blond hair, a dark cat close at her heels.

But there was no sign of Miri or her pet, Necromancer. It appeared that her youngest sister did not mean to attend. But Miri had always preferred the lone trails of the forest, the company of woodland creatures to the world of men. These days she was more withdrawn than ever. The girl grieved for all the people who had vanished from her life, her mother, her father, and now Gabrielle—

Ariane hitched in her breath, refusing to think of her other sister. The fact that she had not heard from Bette in some time regarding Gabrielle filled Ariane with anxiety. But tonight she could not afford to be worrying about Gabrielle or fretting over the strained way she had recently parted from Renard or despairing over her childless state.

Ariane needed to keep all her own troubles from her mind. These women had risked much to come here to Faire Isle, many of them defying fathers and husbands. Not only did they hazard the usual perils involved in traveling, they also faced the dangers of participating in a gathering that could be misconstrued. They could easily be accused of being a witches’ coven rather than what they were, wise women seeking to preserve and share ancient knowledge long forgotten or forbidden by an ignorant superstitious world. These brave women deserved Ariane’s respect and her full attention.

The Abbess of St. Anne’s glided forward to rest one hand on Ariane’s shoulder. Marie Claire’s starched wimple framed a face that one exasperated archbishop had described as being too willful for a nun. The friend and confidante of Ariane’s mother, Marie Claire had served the same role for Ariane for years.

Although her face was lined with the full weight of her sixty-odd years, Marie Claire’s eyes still retained all the sparkle of youth as she smiled at Ariane. “These women will talk themselves hoarse before the meeting has even started. Should we not begin?”

Ariane concluded ruefully that she could not wait for Miri any longer. She nodded her assent to Marie Claire. The abbess signaled to Charbonne, then positioned herself at Ariane’s right, folding her hands into the sleeves of her white robes.

Tall and lanky as any peasant lad, Charbonne dressed like one in her loose muslin shirt, coarse breeches, and heavy boots. She strode to the center of the circle, rapping a thick staff of white birch against the rocky ground.

“Let all tongues be still except mine,” she called out in her booming voice. When her first request did not entirely meet with success, she shouted louder, “Silence!”

Charbonne’s fierce gaze raked the throng of women until the last murmur had died away. Then she continued, “Here upon the sacred ground of these standing stones and in the presence of our Lady of the Faire Isle, let the third gathering in recent memory of the daughters of the earth commence.

“These meetings are intended to promote peace and harmony among all wise women everywhere, to share and preserve our ancient knowledge, to redress grievances, to solve problems, and to seek advice from our learned Lady.”

Charbonne extended the birch staff outward. “Let anyone having business to bring before this council step forward and claim the staff of office.”

The words were scarce out of Charbonne’s mouth when Hermoine Pechard leaped up to seize the staff. Ariane exchanged a dismayed glance with Marie Claire. Madame Pechard was a thin woman with a perpetually soured expression. Caught helping to spy on the Dark Queen years ago, Hermoine had lost everything, her comfortable home and her husband, who had disassociated himself from her.

Hermoine never lost an opportunity to complain about the decline of morals and the depravity of other wise women. A faint hum of conversation had broken out again and she rapped the staff sharply on a stone, quivering with self-importance.

“Milady,” she said, with a stiff curtsy to Ariane. “Esteemed members of this council.” Hermoine swept her hawk-eyed gaze over the rest of the assemblage. “I wish to address a growing problem that I have observed among many of our sisters. The misuse of our knowledge for the purposes of lewd and wanton behavior.”

Hermoine’s opening words evoked a few groans from some of the young women present. She drew herself even more rigidly upright. “We daughters of the earth are meant to devote ourselves to the arts of healing and keeping records of history and knowledge for future generations. Instead some among us waste our time on frivolous matters, brewing up perfumes and lotions to tempt and overcome the senses of men.”

The woman’s words caused Ariane a twinge, calling up thoughts of Gabrielle. Madame Pechard, however, stared at Louise Lavalle. The courtesan merely laughed, the dusting of freckles on her nose enhancing Louise’s mischievous expression.

“I wouldn’t say it was a waste of time,” Louise drawled. “And you wouldn’t either, Hermoine, if you had spent the night I did with that burly young ostler who works at the Passing Stranger.”

Old Madame Jehan slapped her knee and cackled. “I know the one you mean, the one with the fine legs on him like a pair of young oak trees. How was he, dearie?”

“A proper stud, Madame Jehan. I rode him to heaven and back again.” Louise leaped up and demonstrated with a provocative thrust forward of her hips.

The gesture produced a spate of laughter, even from Marie Claire. But as Madame Pechard looked ready to explode with outrage, Ariane bit back her own smile.

“Ladies, a little courtesy and decorum if you please,” Ariane reproved gently. When Louise subsided, Ariane turned with forced politeness to Madame Pechard.

“Now you were saying, Hermoine?”

The Pechard woman’s face mottled an ugly shade of red. She gestured furiously toward Louise and spluttered, “That—that is exactly the sort of licentiousness I was talking about, milady. Men are no match for such wicked charms as practiced by strumpets the likes of Mademoiselle Lavalle.”

“Better to be a strumpet than a dried-up old prune,” Louise shouted.

Hermoine’s lips thinned, but she strove to ignore the interruption. “Strumpets using their dark arts to tempt poor weak men into sin and dishonor. It isn’t right. Surely you must agree with me, milady. Your own family has suffered in that regard, your father lured into betraying your good mother by that Maitland trollop.”

Ariane stiffened. Her father’s infidelity was a source of much private pain and she did not care to have the matter aired in such a public setting. She felt Marie Claire’s hand rest comfortingly on her shoulder, the abbess drawing breath to rebuke Madame Pechard, but intervention came from another, unexpected source.

The Irish girl leapt to her feet. “By the blessed St. Michael, ’tis you that waste our time with such petty concerns,” she snapped at Hermoine. “So what if a few of our sisters are inclined to use their magic for seduction? The men must look out for themselves, which they are well able to do.”

There was a chorus of agreement, especially from old Madame Jehan.

Hermoine glowered at the Irish girl. “Why—why, how dare you—”

“Oh, go and sit yourself down, you spindly fool. I’ve a matter to lay before this council of a far more troubling and terrifying nature.” The girl wrenched hold of the staff and shook back her hood to reveal a fiery mane of hair, pale skin, and fierce blue eyes.

She could scarce have been more than sixteen years old and she was not tall. But something in her fierce manner brought to mind the Celtic warrior maidens of old. Hermoine protested, making an effort to snatch the staff back. But the Irish girl’s ferocious glare caused her to think better of it.

Madame Pechard appealed to Ariane instead. “Milady, I wasn’t finished.”

“Yes, you are.” The girl thrust Hermoine out of her way. She stalked forward to stand before Ariane. “Your pardon, milady. My name is Catriona O’Hanlon from the County Meath. I’ve little skill with the French tongue, but it is important you be understanding me. What I have to tell you concerns matters of life and death.”

Ariane might have been tempted to smile at such a dramatic pronouncement but for the intent light burning in the O’Hanlon girl’s eyes.

“I understand you well enough, Mademoiselle O’Hanlon,” Ariane said gravely. “And if you have information that vital, you had better go ahead and speak.”

“Milady!” Hermoine howled, but Ariane held up one hand to silence her.

Ariane felt guilty for her eagerness to brush the querulous woman to one side, but Ariane had read enough in Catriona O’Hanlon’s eyes to prickle with apprehension. She soothed Hermoine with the promise that she could speak again later and the woman slunk resentfully back to her seat.

“Thank you, milady,” Catriona said, then turned to face the throng of women. Her foreboding expression caused an uneasy hush to fall over the clearing.

Catriona’s voice held all the lilt of her own country, the brogue a curious blend with the smooth French language. But her words rang out clear and forcefully.

“As I told the Lady, my name is Catriona O’Hanlon. Better known as the Cat to my own people. Like the rest of you, I come from a long line of wise women, stretching back even before the days of the mighty Cuchulainn. I count many of my friends among the daughters of the earth and one of these was Neve O’Donal.”

Catriona gripped the staff tighter, her voice vibrating with strong emotion. “Neve was a good woman whose heart was in the right place even though her thoughts strayed in dark directions. But she had cause enough for her anger, as too many of us Irish do.”

Catriona paused, compressing her lips tightly. “I am sure you are all aware how my people have suffered under the invasion of the cursed Sassenach.”

There was a sharp hiss from the two English women. Marie Claire also frowned.

“Have a care, Mademoiselle O’Hanlon,” she said. “Many of our Lady of Faire Isle’s ancestors were English, including her mother, our own revered Lady Evangeline.”

Catriona cast Ariane a glance, half-angry, half-apologetic. “No offense intended, milady. I am sure none of your ancestors were the murderous English scum that pillage our land, kill our babies, rape our women, destroy our heritage—”

“Please, mademoiselle,” Ariane interrupted Catriona, observing the two Waters sisters starting to bristle. “No one doubts that your people have suffered, but it would be as well if you came back to the point you were making about this Neve—”

“Aye, poor Neve. She had more reason than most to be bitter against the English, deprived of her land, all her menfolk slaughtered. Neve vowed she’d drive the Sassenach out of Ireland, no matter what dark methods she had to use.”

The muttered protests from the Waters sisters grew louder. Prudence, the elder of the two, half-leapt to her feet, but Catriona waved her contemptuously back down.

“Ah, don’t go getting your corsets in a knot, girls. Neve’s threat was a hollow one. At least until . . . I don’t know how . . . I don’t know where, but—” Cat hesitated, then said in clipped accents, “Neve gained possession of the
Book of Shadows.
”

Cat’s dramatic pronouncement produced gasps of fear, shock, and amazement from the crowd and one skeptical hoot from old Madame Jehan. Many of the daughters of the earth owned ancient manuscripts that contained snippets of forbidden arts. But there was said to be one masterwork, the
Book of Shadows,
that contained all the blackest secrets of magic ever known to mankind. Evangeline Cheney had been skeptical about the existence of such a book and Ariane tended to agree with her mother.

The crowd hummed with uneasy murmurs and Ariane was obliged to clap her hands and call for silence. Then she addressed the Irish girl. “Mademoiselle O’Hanlon, I know we have all heard rumors of this
Book of Shadows.
But it is a myth, no more true than stories of the devil’s Sabbaths and witches flying on broomsticks.”