The Courtesan (66 page)

“Oh, hell and damnation,” he exclaimed. “Not again.”

Simon sagged down on the bench, clutching the wooden chest to him, as he watched the flames engulf the inn and stables. It was as though the earth had split open, spewing forth hell itself. Even from this distance Simon could feel the heat, his face streaked with soot and sweat. He coughed, his lips parched, his lungs straining for a breath of pure air such as he feared he would never know again. All around him, men shouted, forming a brigade, hauling buckets of water from the well. A pathetic and futile effort. How did one extinguish the fires of hell?

The inn yard was strewn with the fallen bodies of his witch-hunters, some of them no more than dark, unmoving shapes, other stirring, emitting low groans. Simon knew he ought to go to their aid, but he could not seem to rouse himself. Nearby Braxton nursed a burned hand, the older man casting a dazed look at Simon as though awaiting instructions.

Commands that Simon could not give. He couldn’t seem to move or think, do anything beyond brood over that moment when Miri had leveled the pistol at his chest, the look in her eyes so cold. Had she learned to hate Simon so much? Had he taught her that well? Would she really have pulled the trigger?

That was something he’d never know. He could hardly ask her because he’d let her go. Miri, Captain Remy, Gabrielle, the comte. He’d simply let them all go, making no effort to stop them, to mount a pursuit. Simon felt as though something more than the wind had been taken out of him in tonight’s explosion. He’d lost his strength of purpose, his confidence in his ability to battle evil, defeat it. And he knew whom he had to thank for that.

That devil Renard. Just like his old master, Simon had completely underestimated the demon comte. Only Renard with his dark magic could have produced a cataclysm of this fearful nature. Simon could still have brought the comte down, but once more Miri had gotten in his way. For the sake of a girl who now despised him, Simon had let evil slip through his grasp.

He dragged his hand wearily over his naked scalp. At least he had accomplished one thing. He had deprived that sorcerer of his devil’s handbook. The lid of the chest was scorched black from the fire, but otherwise the wooden box remained intact.

Simon flung back the lid and blinked hard in disbelief. He had to rub his burning eyes, frantically grope the silk lining of the coffer to convince himself he was not mistaken. He wasn’t. The chest was completely empty. No medallions. No ring.

Worst of all, the
Book of Shadows
was gone.

The palace was in chaos, preparations for the removal of the court to Blois brought to a halt. Trunks remained packed, wagons half-loaded, grooms, maids, and courtiers alike left in a state of suspension, awaiting the king’s command. Henry Valois had flown into a rage when he’d learned of the attack on his witch-hunters. With only a few of his chosen mignons to bear him company, he had retired to his apartments, where he had remained for the past two days.

Like a petulant boy sulking because some of his toy soldiers had been broken, Catherine thought contemptuously. Any excess of emotion seemed to exhaust her son to the point of rendering him bedridden. But Henry’s ill humor was the least of her concerns at the moment, although he had all but accused her of being responsible for the assault.

She had been tempted to dryly inform him that he suspected the wrong witch. Catherine had gleaned enough information regarding the strange explosion and fire to guess who was to blame. That devilishly clever husband of Ariane’s, Renard. Pity that instead of burning the Charters Inn to the ground, the comte had not succeeded in destroying all the witch-hunters, especially Monsieur Le Balafre. But that wretched young man had somehow survived. By all reports, so had Gabrielle and Nicolas Remy. They had fled Paris, along with the younger Cheney sister, the Comte de Renard, and Ariane.

The witch-hunter still alive, the Scourge on the loose in the countryside. Catherine could not seem to spare more than a passing thought for either of these disturbing tidings. As she paced her own apartments, all her energies, her entire mind was focused on one thing.

Where the devil was Bartolomy Verducci? She’d had no word from the cursed man since the night of the fire. No word for two whole days. She only prayed the old fool had not gotten himself blown to bits on the most important mission she’d ever given him—the acquisition of the
Book of Shadows.

Her spy had been making regular reports to her and she’d been aware of the proposed trade of the book for Gabrielle’s life. Verducci had had his instructions. If the manuscript did indeed surface, he was to obtain it at all costs. But she should have known better than to trust Verducci or any servant with a task so vital. Despite all risk of discovery, she should have somehow contrived a disguise and gone herself.

Verducci’s disappearance left Catherine in a quandary. She could hardly search openly for the man without raising questions about what her servant had been doing secreted in the witch-hunters’ quarters. She was considering how best to pursue a discreet inquiry when one of her ladies in waiting brought her the welcome intelligence of the signore’s return.

Heart thudding with anticipation, Catherine quickly dismissed all her attendants. When Verducci staggered into her antechamber, even she was shocked by his appearance. He looked like a man who had just escaped from the depths of hell. He was still clad in the clothing he’d worn the night of the fire, his breeches and jerkin ashen with soot. His eyebrows had been completely singed off, likewise the ends of his beard, his gaunt cheek displaying an ugly blister. His head was wrapped in a thick blood-stained bandage that prevented him from donning his cap.

Verducci limped toward Catherine, barely able to execute a bow without tumbling off balance. “Y-your grace,” he rasped.

At any other time, she would have roundly rebuked him for taking so long to return with his report, but she wasted no time on pointless preliminaries, not even asking where he had been all this while. There was only one thing she wanted to know.

“Well, sirrah? Did the Comte have the
Book of Shadows
?” she demanded. “Have you succeeded in your mission? Did you acquire it?”

Verducci held up a pouch that he attempted to present to her, but the scrawny little man swayed, collapsing at her feet. Ignoring the unconscious man, Catherine all but stepped on him in her haste to reach the pouch.

Catherine’s heart thudded, and her hands trembled with eagerness as she worked the drawstrings. She was barely able to suppress her cry of triumph as she groped inside and drew out the worn leather book . . .

Most of the courtiers were quiet and subdued, the mysterious affair of the Charters Inn discussed in hushed whispers for fear that any mention of the subject might be reported and further infuriate the king. Legs stretched idly before him, Navarre sat on a bench in the Tuileries garden, affecting to read a book and act as though recent events were of no moment to him.

But it was hard to retain his pose of customary indifference. Gabrielle was safe. Navarre’s relief at that was tempered with a residue of anger and hurt against both her and Remy for the deception they had practiced upon him. He reflected that he should have been accustomed to not being able to trust anyone by now, but Gabrielle, the woman he had so adored . . . Her defection had been painful enough, but if there had been one man Navarre had believed he could entirely rely upon, it had been his Scourge.

Navarre was as mystified as the rest of the court regarding what had happened at the inn two nights ago. He doubted he would ever entirely know what Gabrielle had been doing to get herself accused of witchcraft. Far more clear to Navarre was what had transpired between Gabrielle and Remy. They had become lovers. Navarre had suspected as much since the day of the tournament, although he had allowed Gabrielle to allay his doubts.

It had been Remy who had made the true state of affairs clear in his last message to Navarre. Written in the captain’s plain hand, Remy had expressed his sorrow for not being able to carry out Navarre’s rescue, but Gabrielle needed him more. Navarre entirely forgave Remy for that. He bitterly wished he could have played the hero himself and saved her, not as usual been completely useless, the shadow king.

No, it was not Remy’s calling off the escape that Navarre found unpardonable. Truth be told, Navarre had never had much confidence in the success of the plan. It was the other matter that irked Navarre, the thing that Nicolas Remy did not even apologize for, making off with the woman Navarre had desired above all others. Remy had merely written after his blunt fashion,

“I love Gabrielle to the depth of my soul, in a way that you never can. After I have freed her, I intend to take her far from Paris and make her my bride. I will yet find a way to rescue you from your imprisonment. My duty, my life, my service will always be yours to command, my liege. There is only one thing that I will never be able to offer you, and that is my wife.”

Remy loved Gabrielle to the depth of his soul? A rather passionate declaration to come from such a somber man. Navarre’s lips quirked in spite of himself. It would have been amusing to finally see the mighty Scourge fall victim to a lady’s charms. Amusing perhaps if it had been any other woman but Gabrielle.

But Remy’s words rankled, perhaps because Navarre was forced to admit the truth of them.
“I love Gabrielle . . . in a way that you never can.”
The solemn Scourge was indeed the sort of man who would love but one woman, remain true to her forever. As for Navarre, he feared that he had inherited his libertine grandfather’s wandering eye. Would it have been different with Gabrielle? Navarre would have liked to believe so, but even he was not sure. Now he would never know.

Navarre sighed as he turned a page in his book, the print a blur. He saw only the image of Gabrielle’s golden hair, bright blue eyes and lush, beckoning lips. Perhaps in time he would be able to forgive her and Remy. Navarre was not possessed of a vengeful disposition.

But at the moment he was consumed by envy for Remy and not just because of Gabrielle. He envied the Scourge something even more precious, his freedom. He had never allowed anyone to see how much his captivity chafed him, this degrading, shameful role he’d been forced to adopt, Navarre, the rustic buffoon, the cowardly turncoat, the puppet king. It was wearing him down to the depths of his soul.

More than his desire for Gabrielle, it had been Navarre’s growing desperation that had made him consent to Remy’s plans for his escape. His longing for the rugged mountains of his home, his need to be clear of all the treachery of the French court, his burning hunger to become the kind of king that he wanted to be, strong, wise, and courageous.

But Navarre found he was more relieved than disappointed that Remy’s plan had to be abandoned. He had seen too many plots for his rescue come to nothing, too many of his followers executed. He had become convinced that the reason for all these failures was that the attempts had been too elaborate, involved too many people. He was more determined than ever to escape, but when the time was right, it would involve the simplest of plans and depend mostly upon the one person Navarre did fully trust. Himself.