The Courtesan (71 page)
The device looked like nothing more than a very thin stiletto. Closer inspection revealed that the tip was sharp, but the blade was hollow. Imbedded in the hilt was a vial of some dark red liquid. Once the stiletto punctured the skin, the hilt could be twisted or pushed, shattering the vial, sending the poisonous liquid through the blade. Simon had no idea exactly how it worked, but he’d seen the results too many times. The wound was small, looking far from mortal, but the death that it wrought was slow and agonizing.
Simon set the weapon down, seeking some safe way of transporting it. He found the discarded doll and stripped the blanket away. Out of its swaddling, the doll was a crude semblance of a child. No more than a cloth head and body carefully weighted with something to give it just the right feel of a small infant when wrapped in the blanket.
Simon seized the doll and hurled it off the cliff. But his anger was tempered with relief, that that was all it had been this time—a fake. He’d witnessed more cruelty, death and evil in the span of his thirty years than most men twice his age. But he was not certain he could endure the sight of one more dead child. He’d lain awake far too many nights, picturing the torment of those helpless babes he’d been too late to save. Left exposed in some remote locale where their cries would go unheard, abandoned to perish slowly of hunger and neglect.
What kind of woman could command others to commit such horrors? The same woman who could craft a weapon like that poisonous stiletto; the dark flower that was her emblem arrogantly engraved on the hilt. No matter what it would take, Simon intended to find the witch and put a stop to her ungodly crimes. Unless the Silver Rose got him first.
That was more than likely if he behaved as stupidly as he’d done tonight. Five years ago, even two, he would never have fallen for such a trap. But his lone crusade was wearing him so thin, he was surprised he still cast a shadow.
He wrapped the blanket around the stiletto. Retrieving his sword and gloves, he trudged back to where he had left Elle. She stamped, tossing her head and yanking on the lead, spooked by his battle with the witch. It took much soothing on his part before she settled down. He rested his forehead against the velvet softness of her nose.
“Lord, Elle, I’m so tired of all this. So damned tired.”
She whickered, her dark eye gleaming softly in the moonlight. She nuzzled his hair and lipped at the neckline of his shirt as though to comfort him. As absurd as it seemed, Simon sometimes thought the mare understood him.
Miri Cheney would not have thought it absurd. She would have said . . . Simon’s breath snagged in his throat as her image stole into his mind, so clear even after all these years. The memory of a young girl with hair pale as moonlight, a face as ethereal as an angel’s, eyes that could be the soft hue of morning mist or the dark color of a storm at sea. Fey eyes that could almost make a man forget who he was, what he needed to do. Or worse still, forget who she was. A daughter of the earth, a wise woman. That was how Miri had always referred to herself. No matter what she chose to call herself, a witch was still a witch. And yet, there had been something different about Miri.
Despite her unfortunate family background of sorcery, she had been more misguided than tainted by evil. The girl had possessed an innocence, a shining faith in the ultimate goodness of the world, a hope for the best in people. Girl? No, she’d be a mature woman by now and that light of hers had probably dimmed since her family had been forced to abandon their home on Faire Isle, driven into exile. Simon was in large part responsible for that.
Rumors had reached him this past year that one of the Cheney sisters had dared to return to the island and was living there in quiet seclusion, a woman possessing an almost supernatural ability to cure any sick or wounded creature she came across. There was only one person that could be . . . Miri.
Simon tightened his grip on Elle’s bridle as he sought to banish the woman from his mind. Remembrance of her loosed upon him far too painful regrets. But Miri had been invading his thoughts more of late and he could no longer keep the gates of his mind barred against her. His enemies were gathering strength to an alarming degree. He was alone. He was exhausted. He was desperate. Each day inched him closer to the conclusion he stubbornly resisted. There was only one way he was going to defeat the Sisterhood of the Silver Rose.
He needed the help of another witch.
The Courtesan
is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2005 by Susan Coppula
Excerpt from
The Silver Rose
copyright © 2005 by Susan Coppula
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from
The Silver Rose
by Susan Carroll. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Carroll, Susan.
The courtesan/Susan Carroll.
p. cm.
“A Ballantine Books trade paperback original”—T.p. verso.
eISBN 0-345-48464-9
1. France—History—Henry II, 1547–1559—Fiction. 2. Catherine de Mâdicis, Queen, consort of Henry II, King of France, 1519–1589—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.A7654C68 2005
813′.54—dc22 2004062269
v1.0