The Courtesan (63 page)

A shame so strong, it threatened to overpower him. It was as though Wolf had thrust a mirror up in front of his face and Remy didn’t like the man he saw reflected there. A man who had become so consumed by his notions of honor and duty that they had blinded him to all else, turned him hard and uncompromising.

He had been outraged when Gabrielle had accused him of being angrier that she had frustrated his plan to rescue Navarre than he had been concerned with her deception. Remy was mortified to realize that she was right.

Ever since St. Bartholomew’s Eve, he had carried with him this sense of failure, this burning need to redeem himself. As though he had come to believe in his own legend, the great Scourge. As though somehow he alone should have been able to turn the tide of history that night. Gabrielle said he had too much honor, but that wasn’t his true sin. What he suffered from was too much pride.

Remy tortured himself, recalling those few precious moments Aristide had accorded him alone with Gabrielle, how he’d wasted them on anger and recriminations when he should have held her in his arms, reassured her. She’d acted so defiant, it had further infuriated him, but he should have seen her behavior for what it was, an act. He ought to know Gabrielle at least well enough for that. How often had he watched her employ that stubborn bravado to cover up her hurt and fear?

He had been far too busy brooding over his own wrongs to realize how much she had needed him to tell her he forgave her, that everything was going to be all right. If those ended up being the last moments they ever shared—

No, he would not let himself think that, not even for a moment. He would save her or die trying and perhaps somehow he would find a way to mend matters between them. But there was someone else with whom he needed to make amends. Martin waited by the edge of the pond, scowling as he attempted to skip rocks along the surface. All he was doing was creating great splashes that threatened to spook the horses.

The lad tensed at Remy’s approach. He threw Remy a furtive look and Remy could tell the lad was a little daunted himself by his recent outburst. But he threw his shoulders back and announced gruffly, “I realize I have addressed you with great impudence, Captain. Moreover, I did lie and practice a great deception upon you regarding the affair of the medallion. So if you wish to dismiss me from your service or—or even if you want to call me out, demand satisfaction, I—I quite understand.”

After such a grim morning, Remy was surprised to discover he had the least inclination to smile. For the sake of Wolf’s dignity, he managed to maintain a grave demeanor. “Actually I don’t want either of those things.” Remy extended his hand. “All I want is to ask your pardon for being—er, how did you put it—a great thundering idiot.”

Wolf scratched his nose, looking somewhat abashed. But he clasped Remy’s hand in a hearty shake. “Thank you, Captain, but I don’t think it is only my pardon you should be asking.”

“I know that. I fear I have always behaved like a fool where Gabrielle is concerned. She is the most damned exasperating woman I have ever known. Also the most extraordinary. That is part of my problem. I am haunted by the fear of losing her, that I will never be able to hold her forever. Perhaps that is why when she ended our betrothal, it just seemed easier to let her go.”

“Ah, but you have never been a man to take the easy road, Captain. I am confident you will find a way to get your lady back into your arms.”

“I have to get her away from those witch-hunters first,” Remy said. He fetched a grim sigh. “I also must send word to Navarre, let him know what has happened. Pity that he is no more than a shadow king. I might have been able to call upon his influence to gain Gabrielle’s release.”

Martin shifted with some impatience at the mention of Navarre, but the lad’s gaze was not entirely unsympathetic as he said, “Captain, I know how your king’s captivity chafes you, that you are bitterly disappointed that you have not been able to redeem your pledge and secure his freedom. But from what I have observed of this Henry of Navarre, I think that when he truly wishes to escape from the French court, he will do it, with or without your help. He pretends to be so indolent, so careless, but this is a man who knows how to survive. A truly clever and cunning fellow.”

“A fellow much like you, my faithful Wolf.”

Wolf shrugged, tried to look modest, but failed utterly.

Remy gave him a fond cuff on the shoulder. “Incidentally, speaking of your cleverness, I have not thanked you for saving my life again. Though I have never been sure why you did so the first time.”

Wolf’s teeth flashed in his old familiar grin. “It was because of the boots.”

“But you could have had those. All you had to do was let me die.”

Wolf cocked his head, studying Remy curiously. “You don’t really remember, do you, monsieur? I was hiding in the alley while you fought so bravely against your enemies until you were finally overwhelmed. It was only when the soldiers were gone, when I thought you were dead, that I crept out of the shadows like the street rat that I was to rob you.

“But as I was working off your boots, your eyes opened. Instead of cursing me as you should have done, you just stared at me. You were in pain, your life spilling out of you and yet you noticed I had no shoes and you said—you whispered—’Take the boots, lad. You have more use for them than I do.’ And you told me where your money was hidden in your belt as well.”

Wolf’s eyes waxed overbright. “Never in my life had anyone offered me anything. It was then I said to myself, Martin Le Loup, so this is what a hero is. Not just the courage, but this greatness of heart.”

He shrugged. “So that is why I sought to save you and why I have been willing to follow you ever since. Even to the depths of hell.”

The lad’s words moved Remy more than he could show. He gave Wolf’s shoulder a hard squeeze. “Thank you, lad. Unfortunately, hell is where I have to go.”

“M’sieur?” Wolf gave him a puzzled frown.

“Believe it or not, I didn’t ride all the way out here just to stare at the clouds. I have been thinking. I have two weeks before Gabrielle’s trial. I may well have to resort to force to free her, but I would like to at least make the attempt to establish her innocence.”

“How could you possibly do that?”

“By finding the real culprit. By dragging Cassandra Lascelles and her maid out of hiding. By forcing them to confess the truth.”

Wolf paled at the suggestion. “That would never work, Captain. You have no idea how dangerous that woman is and besides, do you think that Aristide bastard would recognize the truth even if he heard it, if he would even listen?”

Remy supposed the Wolf was right and yet he hardly knew how to explain it to the lad. That something about Simon Aristide had struck an unexpected chord with Remy. That man didn’t seem to be acting out of malice or mindless superstition. He was motivated by a belief in his cause, by a sense of duty that Remy understood far too well.

“Aristide doesn’t strike me as being entirely beyond the pale of reason,” Remy said. “He seems to be a bit above the common cut of witch-hunters.”

Wolf snorted. “No, he isn’t. Let’s just kill him. I’ll do it,” he added cheerfully.

“Not until I make a stab at convincing him to release Gabrielle.”

When Wolf started to register a stronger protest, Remy cut him off. “I have to try, Martin. I have lived as a fugitive, an exile from my country. I know what it is like. There is little enough I can give Gabrielle, but I can at least attempt to spare her such a fate. Living out the rest of her days under the shadow of an accusation of sorcery, constantly looking for witch-hunters over her shoulder.”

“Oh, very well, monsieur.” Wolf sighed, but he looked deeply troubled.

Remy had an idea what was bothering the lad and he said as delicately as he could, “Er—Martin, I know how you feel about the Maison d’Esprit and about witches in general. Nor do I want to expose you to the possibility of this Lascelles creature’s wrath. There is no need for you to accompany me.”

Remy braced himself for vehement protestations from Wolf, fierce indignation against anything that he would perceive as an aspersion on his courage. To his surprise, Wolf merely essayed a low mirthless laugh.

“No, Captain, I will go with you. I am not afraid of that woman.”

At least not anymore, Wolf reflected bitterly. He had already experienced the worst of Cassandra Lascelles. She had tainted him, stolen away forever his dreams of loving Miri. Wolf did not see what more the witch could possibly do to him.

Chapter Twenty-five

G
abrielle shifted on her narrow bed, watching the moon conjure patterns of light across the ceiling. She had long ago surrendered any attempt at sleep, although she was well nigh exhausted. How many nights had it been since she had last slumbered peacefully in her own bed, cradled in Remy’s arms? Six? Seven?

She was beginning to lose track of the empty hours that left her too much time to think, to worry, and to regret. Otherwise she had to admit she had little cause for complaint about her captivity. Aristide had kept his word thus far. She was being decently treated, well fed, provided with hot water for bathing.

She had never been moved to the Bastille or any other grim, dank prison as she had feared. She was being kept confined in one of the more modest rooms at the Charters Inn. The attic chamber had been stripped down to its bare elements, little more than the bed, a table, and a candle remaining. Nothing that would furnish an adequate weapon for escape unless she was rash enough to try braining her guard with the chamber pot.

Of course, she understood why she was being held at the inn. She was more Aristide’s hostage than she was his prisoner. During the one brief visit Aristide had allowed her younger sister, Miri had explained to her what the witch-hunter was after.

Gabrielle was not as quick as Miri to dismiss the possible existence of a
Book of Shadows.
What she doubted was that Renard had it, but she feared he would still come, make some rash attempt to save her life. Despite their constant bickering, she loved her great ogre of a brother-in-law and hated the thought of being used to lure him into a trap. Miri might desperately want to believe that Aristide only wanted to destroy the book, that he would not harm Renard. But Gabrielle didn’t trust the bastard in the least.

If it was Aristide’s plan to kill Renard, he needed to be stopped. The question that plagued Gabrielle’s every waking moment returned to torment her again. Oh, where was Remy? What was he doing? Miri had not been able to give her any satisfactory answers, only that Remy and Wolf were working on some plan to free Gabrielle. But Remy had not been anywhere near the Charters Inn since their terrible quarrel.

Was he still angry with her, still unable to forgive her? What if he had taken Gabrielle at her word when she’d proudly insisted she didn’t need his help? What if he had left Paris, simply carried on with his quest to rescue Navarre? No. Remy would never do that. The infuriatingly stubborn man considered it his duty to save her. But after that, once he had transported her safely back to Faire Isle . . .

Gabrielle could not even bear to think about that, what it would be like to spend the rest of her life without him. She had to take things one moment at a time, concentrate on the difficulties of her present situation, or she would run mad. She wrestled with the covers, seeking a more comfortable position, only to flop on her back with a gusty sigh. What she truly loathed most of all was her own helplessness. She was the one who had gotten herself into this situation. She ought to find a way to get herself out of it without putting either Renard or Remy at risk.

Witch-hunters were always arresting and persecuting women for witchcraft, exhorting them to repent. Gabrielle wondered wryly how many of these hapless prisoners were just like her and spent their captivity wishing they had actually learned some dark magic in order to save themselves.

She fretted the ends of the sheet between her fingers, noticing how thin the fabric was, how easy it would be to tear into strips. She’d considered the possibility of forming a rope ladder, forcing open one of the chamber’s narrow windows. But her room was on the inn’s uppermost floor. It was a long way to the ground. If she didn’t end up breaking her neck, there were still Simon’s men to contend with.

She contemplated getting Bartolomy Verducci to help her either by bribing or threatening to expose the man. When she had been served one of her meals, Gabrielle had noticed Catherine’s spy lurking down the corridor of the inn. So why was the Dark Queen’s hound still hanging about? If Catherine had sent Verducci to dispose of Simon Aristide, the man had already had plenty of opportunity to do it by now. Obviously Catherine had some other end in view.

It was maddening to sense all the plots swirling about her and to know nothing, be able to do nothing. Gabrielle feared that Remy was right when he’d accused her of having a penchant for intrigue. Long accustomed to being a player in the game, it was wretched to be reduced to the role of insignificant pawn. Was that how she’d made Remy feel when she concealed the truth from him about the medallion and the Dark Queen’s ring? When she got out of here, somehow she would make Remy understand how sorry she was, how much she loved him. She would find a way to win him back.
If
she ever got out of here—

A sharp rap on her bedchamber door startled Gabrielle into sitting bolt upright.

“Mademoiselle?”

Gabrielle recognized the gruff voice of her chief jailer, Braxton, the older man with the unprepossessing countenance and missing ear. Per Simon’s instructions, the man paid Gabrielle the grudging courtesy of alerting her before he opened her door. Not that he always waited for her response. Gabrielle heard the grate of the key in the lock. Although she was fully clothed, she dragged the coverlet up to her chin.

Shoving the door open, Braxton held up a candle, the taper casting a flickering light over the dismal room and his surly features. “You need to get up, mistress. Monsieur Le Balafre wants a word with you below stairs and—”