I smile and cheerfully wave goodbye as my insides wilt. Beside me, Maraud shifts, but before he can speak, Rollo appears. It is time to begin. I sigh. “We will have to separate from the others once we are inside,” I tell Maraud. “And find our way back out later.”
“Won’t your smith friend miss you?”
“With luck he’ll be too drunk to notice.” And if not, well, hopefully we’ll be long gone by then.
* * *
The castle at Angoulême is far different than the chateau at Cognac. It is of an earlier time, a true fortress designed and erected for defense purposes. As such, its rooms and furnishings are more imposing, the ceilings higher, the walls thicker, the windows smaller. That is not to say it is not furnished with richness and grandeur, only that the effect is that of a harsh mistress rather than a comforting one.
It is also full of people. There are bodies everywhere—lining the hallway, pressed three deep in every entryway and vestibule. “How are we to sneak away with so many watching?” Maraud mumbles in my ear.
“Hush! I’m thinking.” Although fighting off panic is more accurate. There is simply no place where there are not at least a half dozen pairs of eyes on us. With Count Angoulême absent, the entire town has gathered to watch the performance. “I don’t think we have any choice but to perform,” I finally whisper to Maraud. “There are too many people. Even so, no one will know we are not simply two more mummers.”
From behind the slits in his wolf mask, his eyes glint with skepticism.
“There is no one who would recognize us,” I insist as the music begins. Rollo claps and the line of mummers, with Maraud and me trapped among them, move toward the salon. I wipe my palms on my tunic at least twice. Performing in the grand salon will be no different than performing in Jarnac, I assure myself.
However, it is in the grand salon that the third leg of my plan crumbles so completely that the entire thing collapses. The enormous room is not the problem. Nor are the hundreds of people filling it. The problem sits on the dais, watching the performance with bored, lazy eyes.
“I thought you said Count Angoulême was away!” Maraud hisses, his wolf whiskers tickling my ear.
“I did! He was!” But for some inexplicable reason, he is here in the city a full two weeks earlier than expected.
“Even better,” Maraud’s voice drips with sarcasm. “That is Pierre d’Albret on his right.”
Of course it is. Why should my plan merely collapse when it could go up in flames instead?
D’Albret is thickly built with a face that would be handsome if not for the cruelty that lurks there. His eyes scan the room with barely concealed impatience, looking as if he would tear the wings off of everyone else’s happiness simply to relieve his own boredom.
I am so unsettled by the magnitude of this disaster that I draw my dagger from its hilt and hold it in the same hand as Maraud’s chain.
Then I secure the visor more firmly in place and shift the contours of my mind. I am not Genevieve from the convent, or one of Louise’s attendants, but Gen, a girl raised in the upper room of a tavern who has spent her entire life among people such as these performers. A girl for whom the highlight of the entire year is a chance to frolic and perform in such a way.
Three brightly colored fools tumble by, our cue to enter the circle. I take a deep breath and step out into the hall, brandishing my sword in one hand and Maraud’s chain in the other.
My body does not lose itself in the rhythm of the music. There is no feeling of moving in time with the gods or even my fellow mummers. There is simply need, raw and primitive, to stay hidden from those who seek me.
I do not look at the audience. I most especially do not look at Angoulême. I focus on Maraud. Our steps are as precise and well timed as one of the rare clocks that sits in the town square.
We have taken three turns around the room and have only one more left to go when we have our first misstep. One of the tumblers misses his footing as he executes his tumble, and his wrist connects with Maraud’s ankle just as my sword arcs down for a blow. Off balance, Maraud flings out his arms to keep from tripping. In doing so, he knocks my sword from my hand.
A few in the crowd gasp, as if it is part of the act. Without missing a beat, I give my dagger a twisting spin—just like Maraud taught me—flipping it from my left hand to my right, and step in close to hold it at his throat.
The audience oohs in appreciation. Maraud grabs his neck, writhes as if in agony, then slumps forward and grows still. The music stops, the audience claps and hoots, and coins rain down upon us. Angoulême’s presence is as heavy and suffocating as a shroud. Is it because he is watching me? I refuse to look and risk drawing his attention. Not when we are so close to being free.
When the applause has begun to die away, we finally begin to file out of the grand salon. “Hold,” a deep voice calls out.
It is not Angoulême, but Pierre d’Albret. He sprawls in his chair, staring at me. “You there, with the long hair and helmet.”
I point my finger at my chest.
“Yes, you.”
I take a step forward, but say nothing, afraid Angoulême will recognize my voice.
D’Albret lifts his goblet, eyes shrewd and thoughtful. “Where did you learn that trick with the knife?” He takes a sip of his wine, then looks at the wolf at my side. “I have only known one man to use that before.”
A deep note of alarm clangs inside me. Having have no choice but to speak, I pitch my voice slightly higher hoping to keep Angoulême from recognizing it. “I don’t know, my lord. I have traveled with mummer troupes since I was a child and picked up many tricks in that time.”
D’Albret’s gaze turns languidly to Maraud. “And what of your wolf?”
“What of him, my lord?”
He plants his elbows on the table, his lips growing slack as he leers at me. “Is he one of the tricks you picked up?”
All the men at his table, and a number of the lower ones, laugh at his jibe. Next to me, the muscles in Maraud’s neck grow taut in anger, but he keeps the rest of his body loose.
“La, my lord! He is much too heavy to pick up. I will leave him to haul his own sorry carcass around.”
The men laugh again, this time at Maraud’s expense. A page appears to refill d’Albret’s goblet just then. With a wave of his hand, he dismisses us. As I turn toward the door, I allow my gaze to flit to Count Angoulême. He is deep in conversation with the woman on his left. Even so, it is not until we are free of the grand salon and filing into the lower hall that I allow myself to breathe.
“Rutting saints, that was close!” I shoot Maraud an accusing glance. “You did not tell me your knife trick was so easily recognized.”
“No, but I did tell you that coming here was a bad idea. I just didn’t realize how bad.”
* * *
There are a few pockets of soldiers in the stable yard, but most seem to be heading toward the castle or the garrison. I motion for Maraud to follow, and we step from the shadows, walking purposefully, but not so fast as to draw attention to ourselves.
When at last we reach the shelter of the stables, there are no torches and only a few lanterns—the muted light as welcome as a mother’s arms.
My relief is short-lived, however, when I see just how many men are loitering in here. More men—travel-stained and loud—swagger into our path. Without a word, Maraud turns on his heel and disappears down a row of stalls so that I am left facing them alone.
Coward, I think to myself. I stride forward, keeping my steps confident and frowning as if I am in deep thought.
The ploy works. The men spare me but a passing glance. I wait until they are at the main door before slipping into the second-to-the-last row of stalls. There are no soldiers or stable hands here. When I reach the sixth stall, I stop, press myself against its door, and give a soft, low whistle. Two black ears swivel in my direction. She remembers!
“Hello, Gallopine,” I croon softly.
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The horse swings her head around and swishes her tail as I let myself in. She whickers softly, nostrils fluttering as she takes in my scent.
I step forward and give her a firm rub along her back. When she does not object, I move my hand up to her forehead, and her ears flop out to the side. “I’ve missed you.” I let my words blow gently against her nostrils. She butts me gently with her head.
“I am sorry I have not been able to visit, but you and I are going on a trip now.” I give her a final pat, then go to the wall and lift her harness from the hook.
Wondering what is taking Maraud so long, I loop the harness over her head and fit the bit into her mouth. I do not want to waste time searching for him, but it is a large stable and he didn’t see which row I turned into. With a grunt, I lift the saddle off its stand and turn to place it on Gallopine’s back, nearly dropping it when I see Count Angoulême himself, standing in the doorway, two men at arms at his back.
Chapter 66
enevieve.” The count’s voice is deep with authority and laced with annoyance, his face unreadable in the faint light.
Rutting goats! “I thought you were spending Christmas up north,” I say.
“I was, but was worried about you and Louise and changed my mind.” Of all the times for Angoulême to be struck by consideration for others.
I force a laugh as I carry the saddle over to Gallopine. “Is that why you need reinforcements?” Uneasy at the sudden tension in the room, Gallopine stomps her foot and raises her tail as I settle the saddle onto her back.
“When I saw you with the mummer troupe, I was uncertain you were with them by choice.”
I toss him a scornful glance. “You believe a handful of mummers could force me to perform against my will?” I shake my head. “Have no worries. I chose to travel with them.” None of the choices you offered me held any appeal, I almost tell him, then stop as another idea takes root. “Actually, I was coming to find you.”
“What?”
“Louise and the babe are not well. Louise did not want to bother you, and your men would not let me leave on my own. This was the only way I could think to fetch you.”
There is a whisper of movement, a rasp of sound behind him, but I keep my eyes on his face. He takes a step into the stall, stopping when Gallopine lifts her rear leg. “What is wrong with the babe? Has a doctor been sent for?” His eyes narrow with suspicion. “And why didn’t you wait in the hall to give me this news?”
“I did not say it was the only reason I am here.”
There is a second movement, this one loud enough that Angoulême turns around, reaching for the weapon at his hip.
But too late. An arm crashes down, bringing the hilt of a sword to connect solidly with the back of Angoulême’s skull.
The count’s eyes roll up in his head, and he crumples into the straw. Behind him, his two companions are similarly laid out on the ground. I glance up at Maraud. “I thought you were hiding.”
“I was. That last group we passed were men I’d fought with before. Didn’t want them to see my face.” He reaches down and relieves one of the soldiers of his belt and sword and fastens them around his hips. Then he kneels down to retrieve a second sword from the other unconscious guard.
“Two?”
“I’ve been without weapons for a year. I will not pass up any I find lying around.”
I shake my head and turn back to Angoulême’s crumpled figure. I feel nothing. No, that is not true. I feel relief. “Is he dead?”
“Saints, no!” Maraud sounds insulted. “He is just out for a while. Although, depending on the thickness of his skull, it might not be for very long.”
“Then let’s quit talking.” I nimbly step over the fallen bodies and lead Maraud to the next stall. “This is your horse—Mogge.”
At the sound of my voice, Mogge’s head swings around. I put out my hand, her velvet nose taking in my scent. She keeps snuffling, her muzzle swinging to my left, looking for someone else.
Understanding comes like a blow. Looking for her mistress—for Margot. Just when I am certain my heart is fully protected, some new sliver of pain finds its way in.
Maraud reaches around me to let Mogge sniff at him. Interested in this new scent, Mogge steps closer and lets him whisper something in her ear as he rubs her forehead. The quickness with which she takes to him stings a little. “Her tack is on the wall. Get her saddled so we can leave before Angoulême wakes up.”
Back in Gallopine’s stall, I retrieve my pack and fish out one of the small silver boxes I carry. Just a tiny bit to ensure the count sleeps until we are well away. I take a pinch between my fingers, lean close to his face, and blow. I hold my own breath and quickly step away, moving on to his two fallen guards to do the same. Just as I am putting the lid back onto the silver box, Maraud emerges from the stall, leading Mogge. He glances from my hands down to the soldiers. “You poisoned them?”
“Only a little. Just to ensure they cannot raise an alarm until we are well clear of the city.”
He shoots me one of his piercing looks that are as effective as any arrow in exposing my weaknesses, then takes Mogge’s reins and leads her toward the end of the row. I stuff the night whispers in my pack, take Gallopine’s reins, and follow. Or try to. When I reach the end of the stalls, Mogge comes to a complete halt. Next to her, Maraud is still as stone.
Scowling in annoyance, I start to step around him, but am halted by a newly familiar voice. “Well, Anton Crunard. I was right. It was you who taught the mummer girl that trick.”
Figs! We are having Salonius’s own luck tonight.
“I have taught many girls many tricks, as have you.” Maraud’s voice is different—deeper, louder.
Pierre d’Albret laughs, growing more at ease. “That is one of the things I have always enjoyed about you, Crunard. I never know what will come out of your smart mouth.”
He does not mean smart as a compliment.
I inch my way to the other side of Mogge, trying to peer around her into the main corridor. Pierre d’Albret’s head is tilted at an arrogant angle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicks in my direction and runs the length of my body. It feels like a snake has just slithered down my spine. Four men-at-arms stand just behind him. “Why are you cavorting with mummers? Though it has been a while since I have seen you, I would never have guessed you’d fall that far.”
“It’s been since the battle of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier, I believe. Although, come to think of it”—Maraud tilts his head and rubs his chin with the back of his sword hand—“perhaps it was even longer than that, because I never did see you on the field there.” The challenge in his voice is unmistakable.
Pierre’s face tightens. “Careful, Crunard,” he says softly. “I would hate to have to teach you manners. Especially in front of the girl.”
In the tense silence that follows, I wonder if I can reach for the night whispers without calling d’Albret’s or his men’s attention to my movements.
“Come, Pierre.” Maraud’s voice is more jocular now. “You know I have no manners. You cannot have forgotten that much about me.”
D’Albret laughs and takes a step closer. “Where have you been? First I heard you had fallen on the battlefield. Rumor was you’d been taken. But here you are, cavorting with mummers and stealing horses.”
Maraud shrugs. “I was taken. Now I am free.”
Pierre glances at me once more. “And looking for more suitable employment, surely. I have work that you will be most interested in.”
“As you can see, I already have a job.”
“I think you’ll find mine to be of personal interest to you.”
I can almost feel Maraud’s hackles rising. “What personal interest is that?”
“It is far too sensitive to speak of in a stable, but we could use a man of your skills.”
“As I said, I already have a job, but I’m honored that you thought of me.”
D’Albret’s e
yes darken as he weighs a score of ugly options. “You have always been saddled with that damnable family honor.” I hold my breath, wondering if d’Albret will throw Maraud’s father’s treachery in his face, but he does not.
“As soon as you have finished this job, if you’re still alive, come find me. I promise you, you will be most intrigued. If not for your own sake, then for your brothers’. ”
Maraud grows completely still, the stillness of a predator before it attacks. Surely he cannot think to take on all five men. Even so, I ease my hand down to my belt and unbuckle the leather strap on my sword.
“I will be in touch,” Maraud finally says, his voice tight. “You may rest assured.” The words are no promise, but a threat.
Pierre nods, his reactions as much a part of some silent dance as our mummery. “I look forward to it.” He steps aside, motioning for his men to do so as well. With our way finally clear, Maraud does not move. Saints! He does not know the way out. “To the left,” I murmur.
D’Albret and his men remain in place, silent and threatening, while Maraud leads Mogge toward the back of the stable. By the time we reach the door, my entire body is drenched in nervous sweat. Once we get it closed behind us, I lean against the thick wood, relieved to have something solid between us and d’Albret.
I have not taken but three paces into the cool air when Mogge comes to another abrupt standstill, this time rearing back and pulling sharply on her reins. I leap to the side. As I struggle to steer Gallopine clear of her flailing hooves, Maraud shoves Mogge’s reins into my hand. “Stay here.” He draws his sword and turns, launching himself forward.
Still fumbling with the reins, I crane my neck in time to see Maraud drive his sword into the chest of a man whose own sword is raised high in attack. My heart’s rhythm shifts, racing in time with the dying man’s. He is one of five men blocking our path. Maraud places his foot on the impaled man’s stomach and pulls his sword out in time to run a second attacker through.
Courting Darkness Page 35