The Courtesan (43 page)

Remy hammered his sword against Danton’s blade with blows that reverberated up his arm. But Remy scarce noticed any more than he heard the distant roaring of the crowd. His own blood drummed in his ears, the familiar dark rush he’d experienced on so many battlefields taking control, surging through his veins.

His lips pulled back in the grimace that had always struck terror into the hearts of his enemies. Remy bore down on Danton, slashing, driving him back. His mouth tightened in grim concentration, Danton parried the blows. Feinting to the left, Danton slipped past his guard. The tip of his blade pierced Remy’s padded sleeve. He felt his arm burn as his flesh was scored by steel. With a snarl, he went at Danton harder, raining down blow after blow.

Danton staggered back, nearly lost his footing. His lack of armor might make Remy more vulnerable, but Danton’s was weighing him down. The man’s movements grew more labored, sweat trickling down his handsome face. Remy’s arm was tireless, his muscles more accustomed to the long hours of fighting required of a soldier, flesh transformed into steel until it almost became an extension of his sword.

As Danton parried his blows, Remy saw the man’s arrogance begin to fade. Danton’s eyes flickered with his first inkling that he might lose, that he might be about to die. Panting, he fought with increased desperation. Remy smelled his fear, savored it. He arced his sword down in a vicious swing that nearly sliced off Danton’s ear. Danton emitted a shrill cry, blood spurting down his cheek.

He backed away from Remy, gasping. “A—all right. Enough.”

“Oh, no, not nearly enough,” Remy replied. He slashed again, Danton barely responding in time to block the blow.

“Damn you! I said enough.” Danton’s eyes widened with a mixture of pain and fear. He scrambled farther away. “I yield. I beg you stop.”

“Just as Gabrielle begged you to stop?”

“Yes. No . . . I mean, she didn’t. She wanted me—”

Remy struck again, his sword coming within a whisper of laying open Danton’s cheek. “Wanted you to rape her, you bastard? I’ll take you apart piece by piece.”

His breath issuing in a ragged gasp, Danton frantically beat back Remy’s blade. Their weapons locked, Remy glared into the other man’s eyes. His face streaked with blood and sweat, Danton actually attempted an ingratiating smile.

“For—for heaven’s sake, man, why all this fuss? She—she is only a whore.”

The cold dark river coursing through Remy’s veins erupted into a molten fire, a red haze passing over his eyes. He shoved Danton back and brought his sword down brutally, smashing Danton’s hand, disarming him. Danton staggered and fell flat on his back. But Remy no longer saw the man cowering at his feet, begging for mercy. His mind blurred with images of Gabrielle’s haunted eyes, the memory of her broken sobs. Standing over Danton, Remy raised his sword—

“Remy! No!”

He was dimly aware of someone rushing at him, clutching at his sword arm. He almost flung her to one side until he realized who it was. Even then he fought to shake her off, growling, “Gabrielle. Get the hell out of my way.”

Her face white with fear, Gabrielle clung to him with strength born of desperation. “No, you can’t kill him. Remy, please. Don’t.”

“You’d seek to protect this bastard? After what he did to you?”

“No, you damned fool. It is you I am trying to protect.”

Remy scarcely seemed to hear her, his expression dark and frightening, his pupils mere pinpoints in eyes that held nothing but blood and vengeance. The Scourge’s eyes—

Gabrielle caught his face between her hands. “Don’t you understand anything? It is only you I care about. You I don’t want to come to harm.” She half-sobbed.
“I love you, you great bloody idiot.”

The words seemed so futile, not enough to check such a killing fury. She expected Remy to hurl her out of his way. But he froze, blinking down at her.

“What? What did you say?”

“I s-said I love you,” she whispered.

Remy stared at her for what seemed like an age, that terrifying look fading. The Scourge’s eyes disappeared, to be replaced with Remy’s rich brown eyes, wide with wonder. His sword arm went slack, the weapon slipping from his fingers.

With the aid of his squire, Danton had struggled to his feet. Hand clasped to his ear, the knight slunk off the field. Remy scarce noticed or cared. At the moment nothing mattered except that Gabrielle had spoken words he had never expected to hear, miraculous words he could still not believe.

He stripped off his leather gauntlets and reached for her hands. “Say it again.”

She lifted her face to his, her jaw set at a defiant angle, but her eyes were soft and luminous with tears. “I love you. I always have.”

He gripped her hands. The feeling that spiraled through him was unlike the thunderclap of emotion he might once have anticipated. Joy stole upon him more quietly, like warmth and sunlight pouring through his veins, banishing the last of the cold, the darkness that had so recently gripped his heart.

The entire world faded away, time itself stopping to allow them this one precious moment. A moment that was over all too soon. Gabrielle was the first to snap to her senses, drawing her hands away from Remy. Becoming aware of the cries and hum of voices from the spectator’s gallery, she realized the uproar she must have created by interfering in the duel, but she didn’t care. She’d examine the wisdom or folly of confessing her love to Remy at some later date, but right now nothing seemed important beyond the fact that Remy was safe.

Gabrielle turned defiantly, preparing to face the displeasure of the Dark Queen, along with all the curious looks and pointing fingers. To her surprise, she saw that neither the stares nor the gestures were directed at her and Remy. All heads swiveled toward a mounted troop of men that approached from the Louvre’s courtyard.

Gabrielle tensed with the fear that she had not succeeded in saving Remy. She had stopped Remy from killing Danton, but the king must have sent for his guard, intending to have Remy arrested after all. She glanced up at Remy, who scowled at the approaching troop. She would have given him a brisk shake, begged him to run if she thought it would have done the least good. All she could do was step protectively in front of him, a move that Remy thwarted by hauling her back.

He swiftly retrieved his sword, the tender lover of a few moments ago replaced by the stern commander. “Gabrielle, go find Miri and Wolf. Then the three of you—”

“I am not going anywhere,” Gabrielle snapped.

Remy glared at her, but the rapid approach of mounted men made any further argument futile. He gave a low curse, then thrust her behind him, bracing himself. Gabrielle leaned to one side, peering around his stalwart frame at the arriving troop.

This was no segment of the palace guard she had ever seen. The men were clad in crude helmets and coats of mail, covered with black tunics emblazoned with white crosses. They resembled a party of knights of yore about to embark upon the Crusades.

As they approached the lists, the leader raised his hand and the entire troop came to a halt, wheeling to take up position opposite the spectator’s gallery. Gabrielle could just barely make out the faces beneath the raised visors, but she thought them the most ill-favored bunch she had ever seen. They looked like a pack of ruthless mercenaries.

“Now what the devil is all this?” Remy’s brow creased with an expression of mingled confusion and apprehension.

“I don’t know. A part of the tourney perhaps?” Gabrielle ventured out from behind him. Remy immediately locked his arm about her waist and hauled her close to his side as though he feared one of these men might be tempted to make off with her. Most of them certainly looked capable of it.

Bewilderment was reflected in the faces of the other spectators. Only the king of France showed no astonishment as he stepped to the front of the gallery and signaled for silence.

“Good friends. Ladies and gentlemen of the court,” he called out in a booming voice far different from his usual peevish tones. “I had planned to present a surprise to you at this evening’s banquet, but it has arrived a little sooner than I expected.”

A surprise? Gabrielle and Remy exchanged an uneasy glance. She pressed closer to Remy, feeling as though she had already had enough surprises today to last a lifetime.

The king brushed back his long mane of hair, his rings glittering as he attempted to adopt a solemn expression. “There is a growing threat to the peace of our realm that has long required our attention. Forces of darkness far too great to be dealt with in our ecclesiastical courts or halls of justice. I all but despaired of combating such evil until I heard of the work of these men you see arrayed before you. Soldiers devoting their life to a single cause, the destruction of a plague that has spread through all of Europe.”

The king paused for dramatic effect, then hissed, “The foul practices of sorcery.”

Witch-hunters.
The grim troop of men were witch-hunters.

This had to be more of Catherine’s doing, her treachery, Gabrielle thought angrily. It would not be the first time the Dark Queen had resorted to the use of witch-hunters to deal with her enemies. Such practice was considered the worst sort of betrayal one wise woman could inflict upon another. Her lips tightening, Gabrielle sought out Catherine’s face in the stands. She was disconcerted to see that Catherine had turned pale, her impassive face gone rigid with shock and another expression Gabrielle had never thought to see on the Dark Queen’s face . . . fear.

Catherine clearly had nothing to do with this. Whatever intrigue was afoot was none of her devising, the situation beyond her control. The realization caused Gabrielle to shiver, making her feel strangely even more afraid.

Catherine’s son paraded along the front of the stands, the hint of a smirk about his mouth, obviously enjoying the sensation he had created. “Too long have my people been forced to submit to the terror and intimidation of those godless women given over to the use of dark arts,” the king intoned piously. “Let me present to all of you the man who will drive out the devil and rid France of her witches once and for all.”

The king raised his hand in a dramatic gesture. “Monsieur Le Balafre.”

One horseman edged out of the line, wheeling his mount closer to the stands until he was positioned just below the king. He removed his helmet, the sight of his countenance eliciting gasps from the crowd.

Gabrielle could see why. He was an ugly brute, his head close shaven, and a vicious-looking scar bisecting his right cheek. As he bent forward in the saddle, according the king a stiff bow, Gabrielle was also struck with how surprisingly young he looked. Far too young to be the leader of this hardened troop of men.

In fact . . . Her breath hitched in her throat. She wriggled away from Remy, her eyes narrowing in an effort to study the witch-hunter more closely. To see beneath that scar, to traces of features that struck her with disturbing familiarity.

“Oh, dear God,” she groaned.

Remy was hard at her heels, pulling her back. “Gabrielle, what is it? Do you recognize that man? Who is he?”

“It’s Simon,” Miri’s quiet voice spoke up.

Gabrielle whirled around to find her little sister behind them. Miri’s face was pale and unhappy, her eyes filled with anguish.

“Simon Aristide,” she whispered.

Chapter Eighteen

T
he sun set over the rooftops of Paris, the light fading on a day Gabrielle was glad to see end. She lingered by the windows of the bedchamber she had assigned to her younger sister, watching the shadows descend over the city beyond her town house walls, the gathering darkness fraught with new menace.

Simon Aristide. That wretched boy whose betrayal had once nearly cost the life of Ariane’s beloved Renard, whose treachery had all but broken Miri’s trusting heart. Gabrielle wondered what perversity of fate had conjured up so many ghosts of the past all within the same day. First Etienne, then Simon.

Turning from the window, Gabrielle stole a worried glance at her sister. The green gown discarded over a chair, Miri huddled in her shift in the center of the bed. Her knees drawn up, she rested her head against her legs, her shimmering curtain of hair falling forward over her face. Miri seemed to have dwindled back into a child and a hurt one at that.

Miri had scarcely spoken two words since Remy had hustled them all away from the tourney and back to the safety of Gabrielle’s town house. At least it had seemed safe to Gabrielle once. Now these walls felt like scant protection from whatever dark forces might be plotting against them. She crossed over to the bed and sank down beside Miri. Necromancer rubbed his head against her legs, purring softly, but Miri ignored him, an action very unusual for her. Gabrielle sifted her fingers through Miri’s silken hair, brushing it back over her shoulder.

“Miri?”

Her sister lifted her head and managed a wobbly smile. “Don’t look so worried, Gabby. I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine, dearest. You’re very pale. In fact, Necromancer’s paws have more color than you do,” she teased gently.

Necromancer stretched up on his hind legs and patted Miri’s cheek with his snowy paws as if to emphasize Gabrielle’s point. Miri sighed and gathered the cat in her arms.

“I’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all. I keep remembering the first time I met Simon, that night in the ring of stone giants where those wicked girls were planning to offer Necromancer up as a sacrifice. They fled when the witch-hunters came and Vachel Le Vis—” Miri shuddered at the memory of the evil Grand Master of the Order of Malleus Maleficarum. “He thought I was responsible, but Simon knew better. He tried to defend me, and I thought he was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. His hair was so black and lustrous, his complexion white as milk, his dark eyes so kind.”

“And now his exterior finally matches the ugliness of his heart,” Gabrielle said tartly.

“If only you would have let me approach him, speak to him—”

Gabrielle shook her head vigorously. She had many reasons to be grateful to Remy but none so much as for his prompt actions today. He had spirited her and Miri away before that treacherous Aristide even had a chance to notice her sister.