She flinches, then glares at me. “Your tender ministrations may well kill me.”
I sit down and busy myself with my skirt, afraid she will see just how close to the truth she has come. Our secrets sit heavy in the room, not only the ones that we share, but those that we keep from each other. Neither she nor Rieux is marqued, and I am plagued by this nearly as much as I am by d’Albret’s lack of a marque.
When I speak again, I am able to keep my voice calm. “And what of the duchess? You have cared for her since she was in swaddling clothes. How could you let d’Albret spring such a trap on her?”
She closes her eyes to the truth and dismisses my words with a quick shake of her head. “He was only claiming what was promised him.”
Her steadfast denial is like flint to tinder, and my temper flares again. “He was going to kidnap her, rape her, declare the marriage consummated, then perform the marriage service after the fact.” Not for the first time, I wonder if he is as rough with Madame Dinan as he is with others, or if there is some softer emotion between them.
She lifts her small, pointed chin. “She betrayed him! Lied to him! She had been promised to him by her father. He was only doing what any man would when such promises are broken.”
“I’ve always wondered what you tell yourself so you may sleep at night.” Afraid that I will say something to break our precarious truce, I rise to my feet and head for the door.
“It is the truth!” The normally elegant and refined Dinan screeches at me like a fishwife. While getting under her skin is no small accomplishment, it does little to wash the bitterness of the day from my tongue.
It is no easy or pleasant thing to examine d’Albret for a marque. Ismae claims it is a way for the god to keep us humble, marquing men where we cannot easily see. I say it is the god’s own perverted sense of humor, and if I ever come face to face with Him, I shall complain.
But after today’s spectacular bit of treachery, d’Albret must be marqued for death at last. It is the one reason I allowed myself to be sent back, because the abbess promised he would be marqued and that I could be the one to kill him.
For once, luck is with me: the chambermaid is none other than Tilde, Odette’s sister. Which means I have something with which to bargain. I find her in the kitchen, filling up jugs with hot water for his bath. When I tell her what I need, she looks at me with the frightened eyes of a cornered doe. “But if the count sees you . . .” she protests.
“He won’t see me,” I assure her. “Not unless you give me away by looking at my hiding place. Do not be so stupid as to do that, and we will both be fine.”
She begins chewing her lip, which is already ragged from her constant worry. “And you will get Odette away from here? As soon as possible?”
“Yes. I will get her away tomorrow morning when the first delivery comes to the kitchens. She will be hidden in the cart as it leaves.” I will smuggle the girl out even if Tilde and I do not reach an agreement. The child reminds me far too much of my own sisters, who, if not for my desperate machinations, would be here in this vipers’ nest with me now.
It was the biggest argument I had with my father since the convent forced me to return to his household six months ago. Last autumn when he made ready to travel to Guérande to put his case before the meeting of the barons, he was planning on bringing all his children. He wanted them nearby, where he could use them for his own ends and needs. I argued long and hard that little Louise was too young—and ill—to make the trip. And that Charlotte was too close to young womanhood to be near so many soldiers. He ignored me and had their nurse administer them each a sound beating—simply to punish me—then ordered their things packed.
But I would do anything to keep my sisters from d’Albret’s dark influences. Including poison them.
Not too much. While I am not immune to poisons as Ismae is, I did pay careful attention to Sister Serafina’s poison lessons and used only enough to make both my sisters and their nurse too ill to travel.
I blamed it on the eel pie.
Little Odette is in every bit as much danger as my sisters but has none of the protection afforded them by virtue of their noble blood. So I will get her to safety regardless, although I do not tell Tilde that.
“Very well,” Tilde says at last, her eyes taking in my borrowed servant’s gown and headscarf. “You have certainly dressed the part.”
I give her an encouraging smile when what I want to do is wring her skinny neck so she will quit talking and get on with it. That would not, however, reassure her.
She thrusts a copper jug at me. It is full of steaming water and so heavy I nearly drop it before I can settle my grip to the handles. Together we begin our climb up the back stairs to d’Albret’s bedchamber. We meet no other servants on the way. Indeed, since d’Albret has taken over the palace, most of them stay out of sight as much as possible. They are nearly invisible, like enchanted servants in a hearth tale.
Once inside the room, I set my jug down next to the tub in front of the fire and look for a hiding place.
Two of the walls are covered in carved wooden paneling and two are covered in fine crimson and gold wall hangings. I make for the wall hangings, a spot just behind an ornately carved chest, which should hide my feet from view should they show beneath the curtains. “Remember, do not look over here, no matter what happens.”
Tilde glances up, a new flare of alarm in her eyes. “What would happen, demoiselle? You said nothing would happen, that you just wanted—”
“I merely meant that no matter how nervous you get or what the baron does, do not look over here. It could mean both our deaths.”
Her eyes widen and for a moment I think she will lose her nerve altogether. “For your sister’s sake,” I remind her, hoping to strengthen her resolve.
It works. She gives a firm nod and turns to the task of filling the tub. I slip into my hiding place behind the silk wall hangings and pray they will not also serve as my shroud.
The stone wall is cold against my back, and the curtains part just the slightest bit. If I bend my knee a little, I do not even need to touch the silk to be able to see into the room.
I have not been in place longer than a handful of moments before there is a noise at the door. Tilde freezes, then resumes pouring water from the ewer into the tub.
The chamber door bursts open and Count d’Albret strides in, followed by a handful of retainers, my half brothers Pierre and Julian among them. Although they share the same parents, they look nothing alike. Pierre takes after our father, with a thick build and coarse manner, while Julian favors their mother, with more refined looks and manner. D’Albret unbuckles his sword, and Bertrand de Lur steps forward to take it from him. “I want another score of men riding for Rennes tonight,” d’Albret tells his captain. “I want them in the city as soon as possible, hiding among the citizens. I’ll need reliable eyes and ears there if we are to retaliate against her treachery.”
My pulse quickens.
“As you wish, my lord.” De Lur takes the sword and lays it on one of the chests.
D’Albret shrugs his massive, bull-like shoulders, and my brother Pierre jumps forward to take his mantle before it can fall to the ground. “I want them to report on the city’s mood, the garrison, the provisions. I want to know if the city can withstand a siege, and for how long. They are to find out who is loyal to the duchess, who is loyal to the French, and whose loyalty is still for sale.”
“Consider it done, my lord,” de Lur says.
Pierre leans forward, his hooded eyes bright. “And what of your message to the duchess? When shall we send it?”
Like a striking snake, d’Albret reaches out and clouts him across the mouth. “Did I give you leave to speak of the matter, whelp?”
“No, my lord.” Pierre dabs the blood from his split lip, looking resentful and sullen. I could almost feel sorry for him, but he has worked so hard to become just like d’Albret that I feel nothing but contempt.
The room g
rows quiet and I angle my eye to better see d’Albret. He is studying Tilde, who is concentrating very carefully on the steaming ewer of water she is pouring into the tub. “Leave me to my bath,” d’Albret tells the others.
With a knowing glance or two in Tilde’s direction, they quickly disperse.
I can see Tilde’s neat linen veil tremble as she shakes with fear. D’Albret takes two strides toward her and comes fully into my view for the first time. He grabs her chin between his fingers and pulls her head up so he can look into her face. “You know better than to speak of what you hear in my chamber, do you not?”
She keeps her gaze averted. “I am sorry, my lord. You will have to speak up. My father boxed my ears so often I am fair hard of hearing.”
Oh, clever girl! My estimation of Tilde grows, but this ruse will not be enough to save her.
D’Albret studies her for a long moment. “Just as well,” he says, and Tilde cocks her head to the side as if straining to hear him. He studies her another few seconds before letting go of her chin.
D’Albret holds his arms out to his sides, a silent order to remove his shirt. When Tilde steps forward to lift it over his head, d’Albret’s eyes roam up and down her slender body, and I see the exact moment his desire awakens. The rutting pig will bed her before he orders her death.
Now I will need to find a way to smuggle Tilde out of the palace as well as her little sister. Unless I have an opportunity to kill d’Albret before then.
Tilde removes his shirt and steps away.
D’Albret’s chest is shaped like an enormous wine cask, his flesh the pallid whiteness of a fish, but instead of being covered in scales, it is covered with coarse black hair. I ignore my disgust and force myself to search his body. Mortain must have marqued him for death.
But nowhere among all that hair is the marque I seek. No smudge, no shadow, nothing that will allow me to kill this monster with Mortain’s blessing. My hands grip the silken wall hangings, and I crush them in my fists. It would be too dangerous to attack him head-on. Perhaps Mortain intends for me to stab him in the back or pierce the base of his skull with a thin, needle-like blade.
D’Albret unlaces his breeches and steps out of them and into the tub. I stretch my neck to try to get a glimpse of his back, but I cannot see it from this angle.
As Tilde starts to move away, he reaches out and grabs her hand. She grows still, afraid to move. Slowly, with his eyes on her face, he pulls her hand down into the tub, into the water, his lips growing slack with anticipated pleasure.
Please, Mortain, no! I cannot watch this, else I will have to kill him, marque or no.
Like an unsettled flock of pigeons, every one of the nuns’ warnings rushes through my head: killing without a marque is killing outside Mortain’s grace and I will imperil my immortal soul. It will be sundered from me forever and forced to wander lost for all eternity.
But I cannot stand here and watch him rape her. Still uncertain of what I intend to do, I begin inching from my hiding place and reaching for my knives. A sharp knock at the door halts my step.
“Who is it?” d’Albret growls.
“Madame Dinan, my lord.”
D’Albret drops Tilde’s hand—is that her sigh of relief or my own?—then nods his head toward the door. The maid rushes to open it and let Madame Dinan in.
Her glance flicks in annoyance toward the younger, prettier serving girl. “Leave,” she orders the girl. “I will attend the count.”
Tilde does not wait for d’Albret to agree but slips silently from the room, proving once again that she has her wits about her.
When the two are alone, d’Albret rises from the tub, and I have a clear view of his back. The water sluices over the coarse black hair like a stream running over rocks, but there is no marque. Not even a smudge or shadow I can pretend is one.
Disappointment strikes me like a fist, and I feel sick. Not merely a sourness in my stomach, but a sickness of the heart. True despair. If this man is not marqued, then how can Mortain exist?
On the heels of that thought comes a more welcome realization. If Mortain does not exist, then how can there be any danger in stepping outside His grace?
But am I certain that He does not exist? Certain enough to stake my eternal soul on it?
Before I can decide, the chamber door bursts open and d’Albret’s head snaps up. “Who’s there?”
Marshal Rieux’s voice holds a note of faint distaste. “I apologize for the inconvenience. But the scouts have returned from Ancenis.”
“And it could not wait until morning?” d’Albret asks.
I am certain d’Albret will strike Rieux down where he stands for his gross insolence in interrupting, but he does not. Either Rieux was born under a lucky star or d’Albret has some need for the man and does not wish to destroy him just yet.
“No, it could not. What Captain Dunois told us is true. The French have taken Ancenis. We must send a show of force immediately to help defend it.”
“Must we?” d’Albret asks, and there is another pause that sends a shard of ice deep into my gut.
“But of course!”
Through my sliver of curtain, I see a frown on Madame Dinan’s face as she smoothes her skirt over and over again, even though there is not a wrinkle in sight. D’Albret cocks his head. “Very well.” He allows Dinan to help him into his chamber robe, then turns to Rieux.
“Your sword.” D’Albret puts his hand out, and my heart starts to race. Now the fool has done it. He’s annoyed d’Albret once too often.
Marshal Rieux hesitates. D’Albret puts a finger to his lips, as if sharing a secret. I cannot bear to watch, for while I do not care for Rieux, the man has at least tried to cling to the standards of honor. I avert my eyes, shifting my gaze to the left, away from the gap in the curtains through which I’ve been watching them all.
I remember the blood . . .
I want to put my hands over my ears like a child, but I am unwilling to let go of my knives.
There is a ring of steel as Rieux draws his sword, followed by a soft meaty thud as d’Albret takes it in his hand. A moment of silence, then a faint whistling as the blade arcs through the air. It is followed by a ripping sound as the silk curtain to my right is sliced in two. Surprised silence fills the room as the bottom half slowly puddles to the floor.
I stay as still as possible, huddled far to the left and praying I cannot be seen behind the remaining piece of curtain. My heart threatens to gallop out of my chest. So close. So very, very close.
“What is wrong, my lord?”
“I thought I heard something. Besides, I detest those hangings. See that they are removed by the time I return. Now, come, let us hear what these scouts have to say.”
Then, so suddenly it nearly leaves me breathless, they all quit the room and I am left cowering behind the remaining drape staring at a tub full of cooling water. I close my eyes and shudder at how close I came to death.
At least it would have been quick.
I am still shaking as I make my way to the servants’ quarters and begin searching among all the sleeping bodies on the floor. The room smells of cold nervous sweat and stale breath from so many people crowded together, although their sheer numbers help keep them warm. I pick my way through them, looking for Tilde, but there are so many young women wrapped in blankets and headscarves—and anything else they can find to keep warm—that it is an impossible task. Odette, then. But there are only a handful of children in here, and all of them are young boys—the pages the palace uses for fetching and carrying and sending messages. Which means Odette is not here.
Perhaps she is still in the chapel. Please do not let me be too late, I pray as I slip silently from the servants’ quarters and hurry along the quiet stone passageways to look for them there.
The moment I step inside the chapel, I know I am not alone. Two pulses beat somewhere nearby. But that is not my only company. There is also an ice-cold pall that lies over the room. A restless fluttering remin
iscent of moths moves silently across my skin. Ghosts. Drawn to the warmth of life like bees are drawn to nectar. Indeed, I do not even need to search for Odette and Tilde; the ghosts hover hungrily above their hiding place.
I hurry over and swat the ghosts away with my hand. Tilde is holding the sleeping Odette, and slowly, she looks up. Her face, pinched and white, goes slack with relief when she sees it is me. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she whispers.
That she did not believe I would do as I’d promised stings, and I scowl at her. “I said I would, didn’t I? I went to the servants’ quarters first. Here. I will hold the girl while you get dressed.”
Tilde frowns in puzzlement. “Why?”
I lay the bundle of men’s clothing—purloined from the slaughtered servants, although I do not share that with her—on the pew and take the sleeping Odette from her arms. “You would not survive the night,” I tell her, careful to keep my voice matter-of-fact. “Not now that you have heard d’Albret’s plans. I must get you both out immediately.”
Her face softens and her mouth wobbles and I fear she will break down in tears. “Hurry!” I hiss. “And you may well curse me before the night is through.”
She slips out of her gown and pulls on the clothing I have brought. When she is done, we wake the sleeping Odette and coax her into the unfamiliar garments. They are far too big, and when I pull my knife to trim the breeches, both she and Tilde shrink back in fear.
“Débile!” I growl. “I have not come this far nor risked this much just to kill you. Stay still.” Fear holding her in place, Odette stands while I saw at her pants until they are short enough that she will not trip on them.
“Be very still now,” I warn her. Before she or Tilde can protest, I reach up, place the edge of my knife against her rich, curly locks, and slice them off.
“My hair!” she cries, one of her hands flying to her cropped head.
Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2) Page 3