“Necromancer doesn’t have a great opinion of dogs either. He thinks they are notoriously undiscriminating.”
“Perhaps being a cat, he is a trifle prejudiced on that score.”
“Perhaps,” Miri said with a rueful laugh. “Just be a little careful around Mademoiselle Lascelles, all right?”
“I am always careful, little sister.” Gabrielle gave Miri another hug, then went to summon Bette.
Amid the flurry of joyous greetings between Miri and the former housemaid from Belle Haven, Gabrielle quietly gave instructions to another of the servants regarding which bedchamber should be prepared for her sister. Then, before Bette bore Miri away to tend to her, Gabrielle thought she had better mention Remy’s return from the dead. She didn’t want her sister fainting from shock the way she had done.
But when she informed Miri as gently as she could, her sister’s lips merely curved into one of those odd little fey smiles of hers.
“That is excellent news, Gabby, although . . . even when I grieved for Remy, it was more because I missed him. Somehow I always knew he wasn’t dead.”
Toting her cat, Miri walked off with Bette, leaving Gabrielle gaping after her.
There were times, Gabrielle thought, when her younger sister could be a bit unnerving.
Chapter Fifteen
The gossip spread from the corridors of the Louvre to the lowest taverns in the city. There had not been tidings of such startling and scandalous nature since France’s beloved Princess Margot had been married off to that Protestant oaf, Navarre.
During the next few weeks nothing else was talked of but the miraculous return of Nicolas Remy. The man known as the Scourge, enemy to all loyal Frenchmen and devout Catholics everywhere, had somehow survived the St. Bartholomew’s Eve Massacre.
But as wondrous as that was, it was completely eclipsed by the more startling fact that upon his return, the Scourge had not been arrested. He was to be welcomed back at court under the blessing of no less a personage than Queen Catherine herself. The matter was much discussed in the shops, the streets, and the marketplaces. The wiser of the Parisians shook their heads over it, muttering that the ways of the Dark Queen were very devious. The general consensus was that Monsieur Le Scourge had best watch his back.
Attired in her usual somber black, Catherine lingered by the windows of the king’s antechamber. She had an excellent view of the hive of activity taking place in the courtyard below, the rasp of saws, the banging of hammers as carpenters labored nonstop to construct the lists and the stands in time for the morrow’s festivities. Pennants already fluttered in the breeze, stirring in Catherine unwelcome memories of another tourney held long ago to honor the marriage of her daughter Elizabeth to Phillip of Spain. Three days of costly celebrations, culminating in that fatal joust on the last day.
Despite the fact that his hair had turned to gray, Catherine’s husband had cut a fine figure in his armor, sporting the colors of his lady. Not her colors of course, Catherine reflected grimly, but those of Henry’s beloved mistress, Diane. Powerful and strong as ever, Henry had defeated each opponent, one by one, until he faced the young Comte de Montgomery.
If Catherine closed her eyes she could still see that last terrible charge, the two horses thundering toward each other, the two armored figures coming together in a mighty clash, lances breaking against shields, the wood splintering. Henry reeled, slipping over the pommel of his saddle, and tumbled to the ground, blood spilling from his visor where the shard of lance had pierced his brain.
A freak accident, no one to blame, but the king of France was dead. Catherine remembered weeping until her eyes were red. It was the last time she ever recalled crying for anyone. Her tears had owed as much to guilt as grief. Nostradamus had warned her. The great seer had predicted Henry’s death long before the event and Catherine herself had had a dark premonition only that morning.
So why had she not tried harder to stop Henry from entering the lists? Had some dark secret part of her welcomed the death of her husband, the chance to finally seize the power so long denied her? Catherine still didn’t know, but she supposed it hardly mattered now. Henry and his mistress were both long dead.
Catherine was no longer a shadow queen. But that was the damnable thing about attaining power, she thought with a wearied sigh. One had to strive to keep it and of late, Catherine had begun to find the struggle wearisome.
Her spy still had not arrived from Faire Isle. She had no idea what was going on at those secret council meetings of Ariane Cheney’s. And as for Gabrielle, the girl had made no effort to carry out her promise to seduce Nicolas Remy. As near as Catherine could discern, Gabrielle had not even been near the man since the night of the masquerade. Not that Catherine had truly expected anything different. She would have to deal with the Scourge herself and she had already laid her plans.
A commotion at the other end of the hall drew Catherine’s attention from the window. The double doors were flung wide with a flourish to announce the arrival of her son. His Royal Majesty, the king of France. Though she had named the boy for her husband, Henry was certainly nothing like his stalwart father, Catherine thought with a slightly scornful curl of her lip.
His entourage of painted mignons trailing after him, her son toted one of those annoying little dogs of his. Catherine had nothing against dogs, at least not proper-sized ones that served useful functions such as guarding and hunting. But Henry’s whippets reminded her of half-starved rats and did nothing to enhance her son’s masculinity.
Which could have used some enhancing. His braided and pinked peascod doublet set off his slender waist to advantage, but gave him a slightly effeminate look. As did the pearl earrings that dangled from his shell-like ears, and his long black hair swept back from his brow. Still Catherine couldn’t help taking a certain amount of pride in him. His dark Italian looks and total lack of scruples made him seem more of her blood than any of her other children had ever been.
Henry handed off his whippet to one of his lackeys and with a dismissive gesture to the rest of his entourage, he made his way alone to where Catherine awaited him by the windows. She sank into a curtsy, then angled her head to offer him her cheek to kiss. An invitation that Henry pointedly ignored. He stared out the window, pulling a sour face as he observed the progress of the construction for the tourney. Catherine sidled close enough so that she could speak without being overheard by the courtiers at the other end of the hall.
“Still sulking, Your Grace?”
Henry shot her an irritated glance. “If I am, I have reason to be, Madame. It seems that everyone here at court down to the lowest page knew of the Scourge’s return before I did. And all because my mother who had the earliest intelligence of anyone did not see fit to tell me.”
“I saw no reason to disturb you with the information.”
“Disturb me? I am the king. I should have been told that one of my greatest enemies was slinking about Paris. Good God, Madame. You may have forgotten how Nicolas Remy and his ragtag troop of Huguenot rebels once defeated my forces on the battlefield. But I have not.”
“Everyone loses once in a while, Henry dear. Do try to get over it.”
The muscle in her son’s cheek twitched, an unfortunate facial tic that only increased as he grew more agitated. Catherine laid her hand soothingly over his heavily bejeweled fingers resting on the windowsill.
“I was slow to inform you of Captain Remy’s return because I feared you might do something rash.”
“Like finish what we started on St. Bartholomew’s Eve?”
“Yes, precisely. Except for some minor skirmishing, we have achieved a delicate balance of peace with the Huguenots that I intend to preserve. You already created more than your share of martyrs that night.”
“At your urging, Maman,” Henry growled. “Sometimes I don’t think I would have participated in the slaughter at all if I hadn’t breathed in that strange incense you burned.”
“Don’t fool yourself, my son. All
men are violent by nature. They require no spell being laid upon them in order to kill. And there was nothing in the least magical about my incense. Anyone would think you had begun to lend credence to those absurd rumors that your mother is a witch.”
Henry said nothing, merely arched his plucked eyebrows and cast her an odd look. Drawing his hand from beneath hers, he drummed his slender fingers on the sill, sunlight striking rainbow patterns off his rings.
“Very well. I will admit it might be less than politic to kill the Scourge. But do explain to me why you felt it necessary to honor the wretch by inviting him to participate in my tourney.”
Henry looked as petulant as a child being forced to share his toys and Catherine had to resist the urge to give him a sharp smack. Her son was ostensibly the king of France. An inconvenient fact but one that Catherine needed to remember. Curbing her impatience, she explained in the careful tones of one reasoning with a backward child.
“Ever since the death of your dear father, jousts have become much more controlled, tamer affairs. But tourneys are often full of surprises, Your Grace. It is still possible for a dreadful accident to occur.”
Henry regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Ah, so that’s your game. Well, it won’t be as satisfying as taking the bastard’s head myself, but I suppose whatever accident you’ve arranged for the Scourge will have to serve.”
Henry thrust himself away from the window. His dark de Medici eyes so like her own glinted down at her. “However, I do want to make something clear to you, Madame. You’ve had three sons who were king. My brother Francis was sickly and weak. Charles was just plain mad. I am neither. I intend to rule without my mother constantly intriguing behind my back.
“And as for this tourney, I may have a surprise of my own to offer.” With a sly smirk and a mocking bow, Henry left her to rejoin his entourage.
Catherine watched him go with a heavy scowl. She had always been able to easily read all her children’s eyes. This was the first time she had ever been stymied by one of them and it left her more than a little unsettled.
A surprise? At the tourney? He intended to rule without his mother’s intrigue? Exactly what did Henry mean by all that? If Catherine didn’t know better, she might fancy that her son had just had the impudence to threaten her.
Chapter Sixteen
The grounds of the Louvre had been transformed into something out of the tales of Camelot, colorful tents erected, pennants snapping in the breeze. Knights sprouted instead of flowers, stalwart young men in various stages of donning armor called greetings and taunts to one another while their squires flew about polishing weapons.
The sun beating through the canvas promised that it would be a warm day’s work. Remy paused to wipe a drop of sweat from his brow. Hunched over his king, he fastened the straps of Navarre’s arm harness. No easy task, as the king was not inclined to stand still and Remy felt more than a bit edgy himself.
Crowds continued to pour through the palace gates, mounted horsemen mingling with the throngs of the more common folk arriving on foot. Coaches drew up to disgorge silk-clad nobles and their ladies. At the glimpse of each gown spread over a farthingale, each veiled headdress, Navarre strained forward only to slump back with disappointment.
Remy feared he was just as bad. It did not help his tension in the least to realize that he and the king were both eagerly awaiting the arrival of the same woman. Remy wrenched the straps holding the plate of armor into place with a fierce jerk, eliciting a gasp from Navarre.
“Damnation, Captain. What are you trying to do, batter me before I even take to the lists?”
“Sorry, Your Grace,” Remy muttered.
“And why so blasted glum, man?” the king demanded. “Your expression could curdle milk. This is a tourney we are attending, not a funeral.”
“Let us hope not, Sire.” Remy gritted his teeth as he concentrated upon fitting the king’s spaulder into place on his shoulder. “I confess I do not like the thought of your hazarding your person in the joust.”
Navarre barked out a laugh. “What hazard? Combat à outrance has been outlawed in France for a long time. The most I will risk is a few bruised ribs. The rough and tumble days when a tourney meant real sport are long gone, more’s the pity. Now it is all mere prancing and showing off for the ladies.”
His dark eyes twinkling, Navarre teased. “I am sure there is many a lady here at court who would swoon to see your stalwart physique in action, Captain. Shall we see if we can find you some armor so you can run a course or two?”
“I thank you, Sire, but no.”
Navarre chuckled. “I forgot. You never were one for games. Even during my youth when you helped to train me, you were always so deadly earnest.”
“That is because war is a deadly business.” Remy shifted position to fasten the armor plate to Navarre’s other shoulder. “I could not participate in the tourney in any case. I am neither a noble lord nor a knight.”
“Oh, I can take care of that fast enough. Just kneel before me. A knighthood is the very least I could confer upon you for the service you have done me.”
“I have not helped you to escape yet,” Remy said in a low voice.
Navarre smiled and replied just as softly, “I was referring to your other service with regards to the lady, Gabrielle.”
Remy’s mouth tightened. He focused on the armor fastenings to avoid making eye contact with the king. Navarre had been mighty pleased with Remy when he’d told him he’d secured Gabrielle’s promise to wed. His Grace still had no idea of the turmoil that raged within his loyal captain, that Remy was consumed with finding a way to keep Gabrielle from the king’s bed.
Several of Navarre’s gentlemen in waiting approached to display an array of lances and swords for the king’s selection. Remy welcomed the respite to put some distance between him and Navarre. He was finding it more and more difficult to play his part in this farce, to keep his own feelings regarding Gabrielle firmly in check.
Remy stalked out of the tent, taking refuge beneath the welcoming shade of an enormous oak. All around him a festive atmosphere prevailed but the excitement left him untouched. He leaned back against the trunk of the tree, arms locked across his chest, observing the bustle with a scornful eye.
Navarre was right. The time was long past when a tourney served any useful function such as training for combat or an outlet for the energies of warriors between battles. Now it was not much more than a spectacle. The day of the knight and his bold charger was gone. Remy watched two young pages struggling with a recalcitrant mount. A glossy brown gelding, obviously not trained for this sort of nonsense, yanked back on its lead. Ears flattened, it snapped, strenuously objecting to being draped in yards of elaborate trappings of gold and purple velvet.
Remy scarce blamed the poor beast as he reached up to tug at the modest starched ruff that encircled his own neck. He was trussed up in another set of fine new clothes, his doublet and trunk hose of deep forest green. But at least this time he had the comfort of a proper sword strapped to his side.
He needed to be properly attired to dance attendance upon his king, but he still begrudged the cost of all this finery. At least his own. He hadn’t minded what he’d spent to outfit Wolf as his manservant. Despite his tension, Remy couldn’t help smiling as Wolf swaggered toward him, clad in his new livery. A far cry from the ragged street thief who had come to Remy’s rescue on St. Bartholomew’s Eve.
Wolf munched on an apple, his dark eyes darting about him, eagerly drinking in all the colorful sights of the men preparing to play at war. He strutted, carrying his head high as though he fancied he was a noble knight himself. An effect that he ruined as he fetched up in front of Remy and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Ah, monsieur, I have been over to look at the tourney field. You should see the lists and the golden throne built for the king. There is even a mock tower painted to look like stone but fashioned out of wood. And so many beautiful ladies.” Wolf kissed his fingerti
ps. “Such display of wealth. Such fat purses worn so carelessly it would take but the flick of a knife to sever the drawstring—”
“Martin,” Remy growled warningly, interrupting the lad’s excited flow of chatter.
“I was only jesting, monsieur. Even though the temptation is very great. As my Tante Pauline used to say so often, old habits die very hard.”
“You are supposed to be my respectable page.”
“Oui, monsieur.” Wolf fetched a deep sigh. “But respectability can be so infernally boring.”
Remy gave the lad an affectionate cuff to the ear. “I think you had best go see if you can help the king’s squire with the horses. That will keep you out of trouble.”
Wolf groaned. “Ah, monsieur, you know I have never been good with horses.”
“Go!” Remy said sternly. Wolf grumbled under his breath, but stalked off to obey. As he disappeared around the side of the tent, a fine carriage approached pulled by a team of glistening black horses. The curtains at the windows were drawn back, revealing Gabrielle’s lovely profile.
The coachman pulled on the reins and a footman flew forward to open the door. Gabrielle paused in the opening, her golden hair curled beneath a bongrace, the stiff, heart-shaped bonnet framing the ivory perfection of her face. Dainty brocade shoes peeked out from beneath the gold-trimmed hem of an azure blue gown the same hue as her eyes. The neckline was more modest than what Gabrielle usually wore, but the soft silk hugged her bosom tight enough to arouse a man’s hungriest fantasies.
Remy strode forward, intending to hand her down from the coach, but the king was already there before him. Despite the encumbrance of his armor, Navarre had shot from beneath the flap of tent. Grinning up at her, Navarre’s hands spanned Gabrielle’s waist, and he lifted her down. His dark head bent toward hers, engaging Gabrielle in some intimate conversation, perhaps arranging some tryst for after the tourney. The mere thought was enough to make Remy feel like he’d swallowed live coals. It was all he could do to restrain himself from charging forward and dragging Gabrielle away from the king, his duty to Navarre be damned.