Twilight of a Queen (24 page)

He always told himself he preferred it that way, no ropes to bind him, no anchors to weigh him down. But perhaps it was more owing to all those years he had wasted
striving to win his father’s approval and recognition. Far better not to yearn after anyone’s love than be disappointed.

Xavier took a step closer to the dapple gray only to be arrested by the sound of someone advising him.

“I wouldn’t take that one.”

Xavier spun around to see Ariane silhouetted in the doorway drying her hands on her apron.

“Whickers may seem like a charming creature, but I fear he is not to be trusted. He will bite you in the arse as soon as your back is turned.”

“Are you talking about the pony or me?” Xavier asked wryly.

“The pony I hope.”

After the scene that had transpired between him and Ariane earlier, he had expected their next meeting to be awkward enough without the added embarrassment of her catching him about to make off with one of her ponies.

He would have expected her to be as discomfited as he was, but there was the glimmer of a smile about her lips as Ariane crept farther into the shed.

“If you are going to steal a pony, don’t you think you should have been a bit stealthier about it? You could have waited until later, when we were all asleep. I believe it should be a clear night with a full moon.”

He thought of denying her accusation but what was he going to say? That he had had a sudden inexplicable urge to inspect her livestock?

He laughed instead. “I’ll take your advice under consideration. I fear I am more skilled at committing thievery upon the high seas than I am on dry land.”

“You are a corsair? Why I am not surprised? Well, I guess I am surprised. It is not a trade that I would have ever expected our honorable father to teach you to pursue.”

Her face clouded over and she added bitterly “Of course, I have had to learn to accept many facts about Papa over the years that have astonished and grieved me.”

Xavier studied her, wondering what sort of shining notions Ariane and her sisters had entertained about the chevalier. Probably ones very similar to his own when he had been a small boy with his face pressed to the window, waiting day after day, hoping for a visit from that being he regarded as no less than a god. His tall, strong father, the bravest, most noble knight in all of France.

Xavier wondered exactly when his disillusionment had come. The moment his mother had held the blade to his throat and his father had failed to react in time?

Or had it come much later, the day his Spanish captors had clapped the irons on his wrists and he had realized that his noble father had been so heroically rescuing others, he had not even noticed his son was missing.

Xavier had always thought he would take a grim satisfaction in his father’s cherished daughters sharing some of his pain and disillusionment. But the sight of Ariane’s downcast face prodded him to reassure her.

“Our father was never a corsair. The chevalier would have considered such lawless actions dishonorable, conduct quite unbefitting a gentleman. I took up the piracy all on my own.”

Xavier reached out absently to stroke the nose of the dapple gray. He snatched his hand back barely in time to keep his fingers from being snapped.

“Here,” Ariane said, fetching an apple from a basket in the corner. “Give him this. Like most men, Whickers has a better disposition after he’s been fed.”

As the pony greedily lipped the apple from Xavier’s outstretched hand, Ariane sidled closer. Unlike the way she had rapped out questions at him earlier, she was more tentative.

“So—did Papa teach you to ride?”

“Yes, mostly I think so he would not have to regard me as a complete disgrace.”

“And to swim? Did he teach you that, too?”

Xavier nodded.

“He taught me as well. He even taught Gabby to use a sword, although some of the women here on Faire Isle were shocked. It was considered a strange thing for a nobleman to teach his daughter. Everyone supposed that he only did it because they believed he had no son.”

“He didn’t, according to him.”

“Oh, Xavier.” Ariane stepped even closer and for one dreadful moment, he thought she meant to embrace him and weep. It was one thing to endure that from Jane. He was not sure he could handle such an outburst coming from his starchy older sister.

She drew in a deep breath. “I am so sorry for the way I have behaved. Ever since you arrived—”

“No, none of that,” he said. “I have had enough emoting for one day. There is only so much a man can take.”

But she rushed on, “Please, hear me out. It was just so hard losing Papa that way. I suppose I did feel as though in some way you had stolen him.”

“I couldn’t have even if I had tried. He never thought of
anything but you, your sisters, and your mother. Her name was the last thing he breathed before he died.”

“When Papa left, he took Maman’s portrait with him. It was the only likeness of her we had.” Ariane regarded him wistfully. “I don’t suppose you know what became of the miniature?”

“I buried him with it.”

“Oh.” Ariane’s lashes swept down to veil her disappointment.

“Sorry,” Xavier muttered. His voice became gruff as he sought to explain what he still regarded as sentimental foolishness on his part. “I am sure it must be obvious that the chevalier and I did not share the warmest relationship. But his death affected me more deeply than I ever expected. I hated having to bury him in some remote grave in Brazil.

“When he died clutching your mother’s portrait, I couldn’t bring myself to take it. I thought—well, at least I won’t be leaving him out here alone.” Xavier’s cheeks heated. “A stupid gesture, I know.”

“No, it wasn’t. I am glad you left the portrait with him. I am sure it was what my mother would have wished.” A tremulous smile touched Ariane’s lips only to vanish. “But if he loved me and my sisters so much, why did he never come home? Why did he never try to return to Faire Isle?”

“I have no idea.”

When he saw that his curt reply pained her, he added, “Ariane, I truly don’t know. Any excitement the chevalier had ever felt in exploring Brazil faded quickly and he was too damned honorable to make his fortune in the ruthless way one has to do out there.

“He did become involved in trying to help a group of French Huguenots form a settlement on the coast of Florida. But after the Spanish attacked and destroyed the colony I would have thought the chevalier would have sailed for home then.”

Xavier sighed. “If he had, he might still be alive. The world beyond the line was too rough, too harsh, too wild for such a civilized man. He didn’t belong out there.” “And you do?”

“The sea is the only real home I have ever known.”

“But surely even a corsair needs a safe harbor to rest his wearied bones once in a while. I—I wish you would always consider Faire Isle to be yours.”

Ariane held out her hand to him. Xavier could only stare at those long slender fingers. He was sure Ariane would never make such a generous offer if she knew everything about him, the time he had spent in Paris last fall at the feet of Catherine de Medici. The Dark Queen, the ladies of Faire Isle’s greatest enemy.

And yet those days already seemed long behind him. He had no real intention of returning to Paris, did he? But an unwelcome memory surfaced in his mind of his mother, weeping when she had been summoned back to court.

“Just don’t go, Maman,” he had begged, burrowing his face into Marguerite’s silken dress. “Tell the wicked queen no.”

“Oh, Louis,” his mother had sobbed. “No one says no to Catherine. Once you have taken her coin, you are hers forever.”

Perhaps that had been true of his unfortunate mother,
but it did not apply to him. He was quit of the Dark Queen … as long as he chose to be.

And Jane was right. It was something precious that Ariane was offering him. He had just not realized until that moment how badly he wanted it.

He reached for Ariane. Grasping her hand within his own, he accepted his sister’s offer of friendship, hoping he never gave her cause to regret it.

T
HE MOUNTED TROOP CLATTERED THROUGH THE NARROW
street heading for the gate that led to the outskirts of Paris. Catherine gazed down from the window of her bedchamber in the Hôtel de la Reine, watching until the horsemen disappeared from view.

“Henry, you damned fool,” she muttered, cursing her son. Obviously none of her cautions had made the slightest impression on the king.

Still frothing over the attack on his beloved friend Epernon, Henry had become suspicious and fearful to the brink of obsession. Against all of Catherine’s advice, he was ringing Paris with armed men, threatening if de Guise set one foot in the city, the duke would be arrested and branded as a traitor.

The king’s proclamations, the cordon of troops, were making the citizens of Paris as edgy as her son. Catherine had heard rumors that some of them had even sent off appeals to de Guise, begging the duke to come and save them from their mad tyrant of a king.

An invitation that Catherine prayed de Guise would ignore. She did not know what Henry would do to the duke if he ever had de Guise at his mercy. She was even more afraid of what the people of Paris might do to her and her son if anything happened to de Guise.

Catherine vented a heavy sigh, so frustrated and bitterly disappointed in Henry. She had always thought that her son had more of the Medici blood in his veins than her other children. Enough to know that the wisest course with an enemy such as de Guise was to smile and take him by the hand, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Not to provoke a confrontation one could not possibly win.

Catherine had barely survived one revolution during her childhood. She felt entirely too old to deal with another. It had been all she could do to rise from her bed this morning, her joints throbbing with such pain a lesser woman would have wept, her fingers so swollen and crippled by rheumatism she could scarce straighten them.

If she had but one drop left of Xavier’s elixir … But the mere thought of the man only made her feel worse, sending an angry pulse throbbing in her brow. If she ever got her hands on the rogue again, she’d have him drawn and quartered.

To appease the Spanish ambassador, Henry had sent out commands for Xavier’s arrest should he ever weigh anchor
in France again. A report had come back that Xavier’s ship, the
Miribelle
, had been seen off the coast of Brittany.

The
Miribelle
. Catherine frowned. In all their conversations, she did not believe that Xavier had ever mentioned the name of his carrack. Strange that it should be the same as Evangeline’s youngest daughter.

Something niggled at her brain, some remembrance like broken shards of pottery she ought to be able to fit together. She conjured up an image of Xavier’s face. The memory flowed like water, freezing until it almost became solid enough to grasp …

“Your Majesty?”

The soft voice behind Catherine’s shoulder startled her. The memory dissolved as if a strong wind blew through her mind, scattering it to nothing.

Frustrated, she turned upon her young lady-in-waiting. “What is wrong with you, girl? How dare you creep into my presence in this fashion?”

“I am s-sorry Your Grace.” Mademoiselle de Bec shrank back. “I thought you would wish to know. That old woman you sent for is here.”

“Woman? What old woman?”

“M-madame Pechard.”

“Oh. Yes.” Catherine knuckled the throbbing spot on her brow. Lord help her, was she getting to the point that she could not remember anything these days? She attempted to regain some semblance of her usual composure.

“Keep Madame Pechard waiting in the antechamber until I have had the opportunity to finish preparing myself.” Even as Catherine gave the command, her lip curled
in self-derision. There would have been a time when she would not have been much concerned about presenting a formidable appearance when receiving such a lowly creature as Madame Pechard.

Catherine’s eyes alone would have been capable of setting the woman a-tremble. Now she beckoned to Lady Touchet to fetch the bon grace cap that made Catherine look her most severe, the point of the widow’s peak resting against her broad forehead.

As Lady Touchet settled the cap upon Catherine’s head, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Her eyesight had not faded enough to spare her the sight of the inroads time had made upon her countenance, the heavy jowls, the deep lines that creased her eyes and bracketed her mouth. A permanent cloud seemed to have settled over her once dark and penetrating Medici eyes.

It was so strange, she thought. Sometimes she felt as ancient as though she had lived a century, other days, as though these aged features could not possibly be hers, that somewhere trapped within this decaying hulk of a body was a vital young woman, struggling to reassert her power.

When Mademoiselle de Bec attempted to press upon her a silver crested cane, Catherine waved it aside. She refused to surrender to such a display of weakness, although only she knew how much effort it cost her to keep her pain-wracked shoulders thrust back, her carriage upright.

By heaven and hell, she was still the one they called the Dark Queen. If she could not appear formidable enough to intimidate a sniveling daughter of the earth like Hermoine Pechard, then Catherine might as well be in her grave.

She elected to receive Madame Pechard in the main
salon. None of the chambers in the Hôtel de la Reine could rival the magnificence of the royal palaces of the Louvre, Blois, or Chenonceau. But Catherine had come more and more to prefer the Hôtel de la Reine, her own retreat where she could be more the private woman and less the queen.

The walls of the salon were lined with her most treasured books and portraits of her de Medici ancestors, the heritage that it was unwise to flaunt before French courtiers who had always been scornful and suspicious of her Italian blood.

The Hôtel was built near the site of the Fille Repenties, a convent designed for destitute girls to save them from life on the streets. The irony of that was not lost upon Catherine. During that long ago revolt in Florence, she had been obliged to seek refuge in a convent. She felt as though her life threatened to come full circle.