The Courtesan (42 page)

“He ought to be called devil,” the squire grumbled. “He is going to get my captain killed with his bad-tempered ways and cowardly tricks.”

The horse twitched his ears as though he understood the squire’s insults. Mournful equine eyes regarded Miri through the openings in the velvet mask banding his head. Her degree of communication with other creatures did not equal what she had with Necromancer. The bond between her and the cat was extraordinary. But she comprehended the horse’s thoughts well enough to discern what troubled him.

“This horse does not lack heart, monsieur. Nor is he stupid.” Miri gestured indignantly toward the mask and fancy velvet blanket. “It is these foolish garments you have draped over him. You have offended his dignity.”

“How on earth would you know that?”

Miri gave the boy a look of lofty scorn. “Because Bayonne told me.”

The lad’s mouth fell open so wide Miri thought he was in danger of catching flies. He finally managed to ask, “And just who are you, mademoiselle?”

“My name is Miribelle Cheney.”

“Cheney? You—you are the sister of Mademoiselle Gabrielle?”

“Yes, but we have no time for this idle chatter. Help me get this velvet nonsense off Bayonne and then I am sure I will be able to persuade him to carry Remy through the joust bravely and true.”

The squire made no move to obey her command. He stared at Miri through the wild tangles of his hair, a dazed expression stealing over his dirty face. Perhaps the poor lad was a bit dimwitted.

Not waiting for the squire’s help, she began removing the trappings from Bayonne herself. As she stripped away the offending mask, the horse quivered, stamping restively. Miri cradled his nose between her hands and sang to him, weaving her greatest magic in words of an ancient language created by wise women long before knights ever roamed the earth.

Martin Le Loup blinked, knowing he should reclaim the captain’s horse from this girl who seemed to have taken charge of it. But Wolf couldn’t seem to move. He couldn’t think. He felt lost in a haze as he stared at Miri Cheney. Where had she come from so suddenly? It was like she had dropped from the sky, fallen from the moon itself, her cascade of hair the color of moonlight, her skin as translucent. Her eyes were as blue as—No, they were gray. No, they were as silvery as her song.

A song that was at once strange and beautiful in some language he did not comprehend, but the notes vibrated through him, plucking at his heart. Her music was not only calming that great brute of a horse, but in some fashion taming him as well.

If Miri was Gabrielle’s sister, then she was also a witch. Wolf feared he should cover his ears, not listen to her, but her lovely melody curled through him, making him want to weep and cry out for joy all in the same breath.

Wolf had entirely new empathy for the captain for being in thrall to Gabrielle. As he gazed spellbound at Miri, Wolf finally understood what it was to be bewitched, enchanted. And he did not have the slightest wish to be saved.

“Rene de Chinon . . . Pierre de Foix.” The herald intoned the names of the knights who maneuvered into position at opposite ends of the lists. The king of France strode toward the front of the stands, beaming as two among his favored mignons prepared to run the course. Visors were lowered, shields were raised, and lances steadied. The king raised a scarf aloft, then released it, the red silk fluttering to the ground.

Amid cheers from the crowd, the two knights charged, horses galloping at full tilt, their lances leveled to strike . . . and missed, thundering harmlessly past each other. The spectators in the gallery groaned in disappointment. The knights veered round for a second charge. This time Rene de Chinon’s lance struck feebly off his opponent’s shield.

“Oh, well done, Rene,” the king applauded as heartily as if his favorite had performed some brilliant feat of arms. Desultory cheers rang out from the rest of the crowd, but the sights and sounds were all a blur to Gabrielle.

She perched on the edge of her tabouret with mounting desperation, dreading that at any moment she would see Remy assume his place at the end of the lists. Her eyes still felt raw from her recent bout of weeping and she despised herself for it. Of all the foolish weaknesses. As if her tears could be of any avail to Remy. Nothing could.

Gabrielle cast a baleful glance at the woman she held responsible for his present peril. Catherine stood behind the king’s throne, watching the tourney with such a serene air, Gabrielle longed to strangle her. As the next two opponents ran their course, Gabrielle could bear the suspense no longer. She edged her way to Catherine’s side.

“You have got to put a stop to this,” she hissed in Catherine’s ear.

Catherine’s gaze never wavered from the field. “The tourney? My son went to a great deal of expense arranging this little amusement and I doubt he would—”

“You know perfectly well what I am talking about,” Gabrielle interrupted her furiously. “The joust between Remy and Danton.”

“Ah, that. It was Remy who accepted the challenge. Such a hot-blooded man. I always mistakenly believed our good captain to be rather phlegmatic. Who would have ever suspected him of possessing such a temper?”

“You goaded him. You poured your poison into his ear.”

“Actually it was more into his eyes,” Catherine said with a sly smile, then shrugged. “The captain asked me who Danton was. I merely answered his question.”

“Because you wanted this combat to take place. You are seeking to destroy Remy.” Gabrielle regarded the implacable older woman with a mingling of anger and despair. “But why? I thought we had made a bargain. You agreed to leave Remy alone if I seduced him and kept him from creating mischief with Navarre.”

“A promise I’m sure you meant to keep,” Catherine said dryly. “Frankly, I doubt your ability to do so.”

“You’ve scarce given me a chance. I could control Remy if you would just—”

“Control him?” Catherine’s gaze swept scornfully over her. “My dear Gabrielle, I fear your charms are on the wane. You don’t even possess enough influence with the man to keep him from fighting.”

Gabrielle flinched as Catherine’s barb found its mark. What the queen said was true. There was nothing Gabrielle could have said or done to turn Remy aside from the ruinous course. He was determined to fight, to risk his life, and for what? For
her.
A dishonored woman, a harlot, a whore. Before Gabrielle could think of a reply to Catherine, the herald intoned the names she had been dreading to hear.

“The Chevalier Etienne Danton . . . Captain Nicolas Remy.”

“You had better resume your seat, my dear.” Catherine’s dark eyes mocked her. “You are about to miss the best joust of the day.”

Gabrielle whirled about, heartsick, as she saw the two mounted figures taking up positions at the opposite ends of the lists. Danton was gleaming in costly engraved armor from head to foot, plumes waving off his helmet, the scarlet feathers matching the surcoat that draped his white stallion. By contrast, Remy’s brown gelding appeared plain, outfitted with no more than reins and the high-backed jousting saddle. Remy had not bothered to don a full suit of armor. He wore little protection beyond his breastplate and rough iron helmet. He looked more like a common soldier riding into battle than a knight and his appearance elicited a few jeers and catcalls from the crowd.

But for the most part a hushed air of anticipation had fallen over the spectators, even the most foolish of the courtiers sensing the difference in this contest, the deadly intentions masked by the visors of the two combatants. With a smug smile, the king leaned out over the edge of the gallery and raised the scarf. Gabrielle knew a mad urge to rush forward and snatch it away from him. But it was too late. The red silk fluttered downward. Remy and Danton charged.

Gabrielle stumbled to the edge of the stands and gripped the railing. Her heart thundered in time with the horse’s hooves churning up the earth. Danton had often boasted of his skill in the joust. With little effort, he managed both reins and shield, his lance supported by the pouch placed on the bow of his saddle.

But Remy was clearly not trained for this sort of combat. This was not his kind of fighting. Though he guided his horse well enough, he gripped his lance freely, unsupported by anything but his own strength. As the two men came together, it was all Gabrielle could do to not close her eyes. Remy’s lance glanced off Danton’s shield. Danton’s lance struck at Remy’s helmet and missed. As the two horses thundered past each other, Gabrielle’s palms were slick with sweat.

She clutched the rail until her knuckles were white, but there was no respite, no relief from her suffocating fear. Remy and Danton galloped to the end of the lists. Danton brought his mount around in a caracole. Remy wheeled purposefully, he and the gelding seeming to move as one. Lances leveled, the two men charged again. The tip of Remy’s lance struck Danton’s shield. To Gabrielle’s horror, Remy lost his grip on the weapon and it tumbled to the ground. He barely managed to deflect Danton’s blow with his own shield. Danton’s lance splintered and snapped in two.

The crowd cheered lustily. Gabrielle pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a moan. Oh, please, she prayed. Let that be the end of it. Her heart sank as the two men galloped to the end of the field, their squires scrambling to fetch fresh lances. Danton’s horse appeared restive. Perhaps it would refuse to do the course again. Gabrielle’s hope swiftly died as Danton brought his mount back under control. A new lance gripped in his hand, Remy guided his horse into place.

A hush once more enveloped the crowd as the two men careened toward each other, gaining in momentum, as though all their rage, all their hostility was honed into this final charge. They came together in a furious collision of lance and shield. Danton’s horse reared back. Jarred from the saddle, Danton struck the ground with such force his helmet flew off of his head. Remy reined in, drawing his horse up short while Danton’s stallion galloped to the end of the course, riderless. Any joy Gabrielle might have felt at Remy being unharmed was dimmed by the sight of Danton sprawled on his side, not moving. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, many of the courtiers rising to their feet.

Oh, God, Gabrielle thought. Please, for Remy’s sake, don’t let the wretch be dead. Don’t let Remy have killed him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, the seconds inching by before Danton emitted a groan, then struggled to a sitting position. The crowd broke into a smattering of applause. Gabrielle trembled, her relief so great she nearly sagged to her knees.

She closed her eyes. Thank God. It was over and Remy was safe. So much for the Dark Queen and all of her clever plotting. Gabrielle was tempted to shoot Catherine a look of sheer defiance and triumph. But when Gabrielle’s eyes fluttered open, her heart all but stopped as Danton struggled to his feet, bellowing for his sword.

Remy dismounted. He stripped off his helmet, likewise calling for a weapon. Looking mighty unhappy, Wolf scurried forward to hand Remy a broadsword while another page led away the gelding. Danton’s squire was equally as quick to arm his master. Remy and Danton marched toward each other. Their swords came together in a horrible clang of steel.

“No!” Gabrielle’s cry was lost in the shouts of excitement from the other spectators.

This duel was in flagrant violation of the statutes against
combat à outrance.
Surely the king must stop it. Even Henry Valois could not stand idly by and watch as his own laws were ignored. But when Gabrielle glanced desperately at the king, Henry hunkered down feeding tidbits to his whippet, feigning not to notice the fierce duel being waged. Her hands folded primly before her, the Dark Queen watched with an air of bored detachment as though in little doubt of the outcome.

Gabrielle was jostled as other courtiers left their seats, peering eagerly over the edge of the gallery. She was sickened by their faces, their expressions reminding her of jackals scenting blood. There was no one to intervene, no one to bring a halt to the deadly combat . . . no one but herself. She shoved her way out of the crowd and darted for the steps leading down from the gallery.