It is an impossible shot. A small wooden door facing our direction in the north tower. But she is an Arduinnite and makes it easily. Or mayhap Arduinna herself guides the arrow with our message wrapped around its shaft. Whatever is behind it, skill or luck, it sinks into the door and stays there.
“Will they find it, do you think?” Gen asks.
Aeva stares at her.
“I mean, we don’t know how often they patrol this tower. It doesn’t face the main conflict they have before them. What if no one wanders up here for two days?”
Aeva purses her mouth, takes another arrow from her quiver, and removes a small clay flask from one of the pouches at her belt. She dips the arrowhead into the pitch—for that is what it is, I can smell it once it is open—then holds the point out to Lazare.
He has already produced a flame from some flint or powder—or mayhap his be-damned fingers—and ignites the arrow.
In one deft movement, she raises the bow, sights down the shaft, then shoots. This one, too, lands in the door, but farther up. The flame is not hot enough to burn through the door—or our message—but it sends a thin stream of smoke into the air. Within a quarter hour, a guard comes to investigate.
Our message has been received. Now all we must do is wait.
Chapter 73
Genevieve
I come awake, my hand at my knife, as something nudges me in the ribs.
“Watch,” Sybella says softly.
The sun has not only barely begun to rise, but the battlements of Châteaugiron have come to life. Men scramble along the ramparts, hurrying to and fro. Before my eyes can sort out what I’m seeing, a loud belch of thunder explodes nearby. I clap my hands to my ears, then shove to my feet and hurry to the ridge overlooking the valley. Just as I reach it, another explosion erupts from the castle cannon.
Rohan’s encamped forces are in complete disarray. Men scurry in all directions—toward their cannon, for cover, and for the panicked horses. I can just make out their commander bellowing to ready their own cannon. I feel a tug on my arm and look to see I am the only one standing. I quickly drop to my belly so we will not be spotted, and watch with the others.
A third cannon goes off, fire disgorging over the rampart as the explosion shakes the ground and trembles through my body, causing my bones and innards to rattle. Wood splinters and metal screams as the projectile strikes one of Rohan’s cannon. The men on the ramparts cheer, and it is all I can do not to join them.
A sense of happiness sneaks up on me, catching me unaware. All my life I have searched for happiness, but have never found it, or when I did, it was as fleeting as a glimpse of quicksilver.
But in this moment, I am the happiest I have ever been. It doesn’t matter that what we do is dangerous, or that our lives are in peril. I am surrounded by a newly formed family, and it anchors me to this world as solidly as the roots of an oak tree. I wish to preserve this moment forever, like a stray leaf trapped in ice, but ice that will never melt.
If only Maraud were here.
As the reverberations of the cannon begin to fade, I realize I can feel the beating of a heart. It is faint and far away. Moments later, I feel a soul drift up into the sky buffeted on the wind. It does not rush or feel angry or even carry many images. Perhaps because of the distance. I have only a sense of surprise and disbelief and then it is gone.
Rohan’s men—the ones not laid low by the cannon blast—hesitate for a moment before the commander bellows at them to light their own sodding cannon. As they scramble to do so, I hold my breath. Lazare is the expert and swore it would work, but I will not rest easy until I see with my own eyes that it has.
Two men load the heavy ball into the cannon, while another carefully pours powder from one of the kegs into the powder chamber. Or tries to. He shakes the small barrel, but nothing comes out. He gives a harder shake.
Another blast from the castle scatters them. Although I am growing more used to the sound now, it still feels as if the sky is being torn apart.
This, I think. This is precisely the sort of thing I imagined doing when I joined the convent. Not stealing powder or watching artillery fire, but things that mattered. Things that helped people. Things where I could make a difference. Turn the tides of war. Make desperate bids for victory. Sneak behind enemy lines. Not the endless waiting and making myself small and invisible.
The commander steps around the wounded to see what the matter is. The cannoneer gesticulates wildly, and the commander sends for another keg of the powder. The gunner wrenches it open and tries to pour, but the same thing happens—nothing comes out.
The commander casts it onto the ground, grabs a pike from a nearby infantryman, and stabs it into the barrel, then kneels to examine the black mess.
He looks up and begins shouting, and the cannoneers back away.
“It worked,” I murmur.
Lazare looks wounded. “Did you doubt me?”
“Knowing a miracle will occur does not keep one from marveling when it does.”
He turns away, a hint of a smile curling his lip.
The castle gets off a dozen more cannon shot, leaving the field below in disarray. Lazare pushes to his feet. “I’m going to get closer and see if I can catch wind of which way they will send for more powder. Then we’ll know where to set our ambush. Anyone want to come?” He looks at all of us, but his gaze lingers a moment on me. Aeva, Poulet, and one of the queen’s guards volunteer, but the rest of us stay at camp.
When they have gone, Sybella scoots closer to me, her eyes bright as she nudges me with her shoulder. “I think Lazare likes you.”
“He is enjoyable company.” I keep my eyes on the scene below.
“It would not take much to encourage him.”
“It wouldn’t.”
She draws back to study me. “You aren’t hesitating because he is a charcoal burner?”
I cannot help it. I laugh. “No!” As if I would ever hold anybody’s beginnings against them. After she continues to stare at me in bemusement, I say, “My mother is a whore. All the aunts I told you about—they work in that same trade. I am in no position to throw stones at anyone else’s beginnings.”
She blinks once, the only reaction she allows to show. “I would never have guessed you were not noble born. You have mastered your training well.”
I shrug, not sure what to say to that.
A considering look crosses her face. “Then why not dally with Lazare? I can’t help but think that your dealings with the king have left a poor taste in your mouth. Perhaps a fun tumble would be just the thing to cast it from your mind?”
She is right. “A fun tumble would be just the thing. But my stupid body has decided there is only one person it wishes to tumble with, and saints know where he is.”
“Who?” she asks gently.
I jerk my head around to look at her. “I did not say that aloud.”
She smiles faintly. “You did, actually.”
Rutting goats! I stare straight ahead, debating whether to tell her or not. “Maraud,” I say finally. When she still looks puzzled, I clarify. “Crunard. Anton Crunard.”
She stares at me a long moment, then gives out a whoop of laughter.
I scowl at her and start to rise to my feet. “No, no. It is not you. It is just that I think Father Effram is more correct than he knows when he tells us of the gods using us for their own amusement.”
It is not her laughing that has me wanting to get up and move, but the concern that has lurked in my breast since Maraud disappeared. I have not told Sybella yet. The more I think upon it, the more I fear it is not coincidence that he went missing the same time as her brother. I do not want to place that burden on her shoulders.
“He is not dead,” she says finally.
Hope quickly fills me. “Is it one of Mortain’s gifts that tells you that?”
“No. It is me being hopeful. I refuse to believe the gods have woven all these threads together simply to snip one off too soon.”
<
br /> I stare down at the grass. “What if they have decided that is my punishment?”
“For what? Sleeping with the king? If that were the case, every courtesan, mistress, and favorite throughout history would’ve been struck dead.”
It is more complicated than that, but before I can explain further, she continues. “As much as it pains me to sound precisely like Father Effram, I cannot help but believe it simply means his role in all of this—whatever this might encompass—is not over.”
Chapter 74
Maraud
By the time they reached Limoges, Andry and Tassin were riding with the group, although Maraud had not spoken to them or even made eye contact. But knowing they were there was enough. D’Albret’s holding was a teeming mass of soldiers and men-at-arms. There was only one thing so many men could be preparing for. “Having a jousting tourney, are you, d’Albret? I didn’t think that was a sport you enjoyed.”
D’Albret cut him a glance that told him just how unamused he was by Maraud’s taunting. “We’re preparing for war.”
Just as he’d feared. “Against whom?”
Another sideways glance, this one sly. “You’ll see.”
Maraud turned his attention toward the keep, taking in the training yard, the stables, the looming manor that had a more oppressive air than most hulking piles of stone. “You keep saying that. I think you’ve got nothing but bluster.”
The half-loaded supply wagons gave lie to that, but Maraud pretended he didn’t see them. Whatever the man was planning, it was a thoroughly provisioned affair.
“You are dangerously close to calling me a liar, Crunard. Be a shame to have to cut that clever tongue of yours out. Think of all the ladies who’d be disappointed.”
Maraud dropped the pretense. “Who are you planning to fight?”
“We. We will be fighting.”
“You still haven’t said against whom, and I am not inclined to sign up blindly for an ill-defined war against an unknown enemy.”
Without warning, Pierre brought his horse to a stop, then tossed his reins to a nearby lackey who scrambled his way. “Come with me.”
About damned time, Maraud thought as he dismounted and strode after Pierre. They reached the north tower of the keep, then waited for the guards to step aside.
“To answer your mewling question,” Pierre said, “we’re riding to Brittany. Day after tomorrow.”
“Brittany? Why?” Maraud stepped into the gate tower, the sudden lack of sunlight causing him to blink rapidly. The door clanged shut behind him, and his mind screamed, Trap!
Pierre made for the staircase. “Because a foolish fourteen-year-old girl negotiated it away when it wasn’t her right to do so.”
“You’re still mad she refused your father.”
Pierre whirled around on the steps to face him. “She refused us. Refused to give us what had been promised, time and again. Refused to give us that which we have as legitimate a claim to as she does.”
“There were other claims to the ducal throne with more legitimacy than yours.”
Pierre grinned. “Yes. And one of them plans to seize it.”
“With your help.”
Pierre’s smile widened. “And yours.”
Maraud laughed. “You’re daft. I’ve no interest in committing treason.”
They’d finally reached the top of the stairs. “Are you so very certain?” Pierre put his hand on the door. “It is, after all, a family weakness,” he said, then thrust it open.
A man stood at the window looking out over the courtyard. When he turned to face them, it was like a spurred boot to Maraud’s gut.
He had aged at least fifteen years since Maraud last saw him, although it had been only three. His eyes held three lifetimes more pain, and even when he smiled, it did not reach his eyes. “My son.”
Chapter 75
“I’m sure you two have much to catch up on, and I’ve no wish to intrude.” D’Albret shut the door, leaving Maraud alone with his father.
The father who’d reviled and rejected him for years, yet sacrificed everything he ever claimed was important—honor, loyalty, strength of purpose.
How was a man supposed to feel about a father who’d betrayed his country and cast away the family’s honor for him? Maraud had been pondering that question for over a year now and still had no answer, only deeply worn ruts in his brain. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at the old man—for he was clearly that now. No longer the towering pillar of virtue that had dominated the first half of Maraud’s life.
“I cannot fathom why d’Albret thinks I would be interested in seeing you.”
“Perhaps because he knows that we are all we have left.”
His father watched him as if drinking in his face, and Maraud wondered what he saw there. “We do not even have that. Why are you here?”
“Because they said they would help me find you if I aided their cause.” He left the window for the small desk in the center of the room.
Wanting to put as much distance between them as possible, Maraud leaned back against the door. “I didn’t need you to find me.”
“You are my last son. I could not let you languish in prison. Not after what I paid for you.”
Just the thought of what he’d paid still made Maraud sick. “It wasn’t a price I was willing to pay.”
His father placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “It wasn’t your choice.”
“So now that you’ve found me, you will betray your country again?” Maraud laughed at the sheer audacity of it. “I will have no part of this.”
“Then they will kill us both. It is that simple.”
“Whatever happened to death before dishonor? I seem to remember that was one of your favorite morality tales.”
“That was before death had taken so very much from me.”
Maraud could hear the pain in his voice, recognized it immediately. He folded his arms. “If only I had known all those years what a fraud you were. Although I am glad the others did not learn of it. They held in great value what you have tossed aside. It would pain them deeply.”
“Do not dare judge me,” his father said, coming out from behind the desk. “Not until you have stood and watched all your sons die. Then you can talk to me of honor.”
“I have stood and watched men who fought under my command die. I have stood and watched my own brothers slain. And yet I did not offer up my honor to the first man who asked.” Maraud swung around and pounded his fist on the door. “Let me out. We are done here.”
“Wait!”
Maraud ignored the old man and strode past the guard. He found d’Albret just outside the tower, almost as if he’d been waiting for him. “Why am I here?”
“Because you were the price he insisted on for helping us.”
“Well, he has seen me, your price has been paid, and now I will leave.”
Pierre laughed. “I don’t think so. While he has had much practice betraying his country, you are still a virgin at such things. We will keep you with us until Brittany is ours, lest you take it into your head to inform the king.” He took a step closer, placing his hand on his sword. “The real question is, must I put you in chains, or will the promise of killing your father be enough to keep you in line?”
Maraud stared into Pierre’s cruel face. He did not care about his father’s safety, but he did care about his country. “Threats against my father will be enough. You have no need of chains.” He would stay long enough to learn exactly what d’Albret was up to. Then he would do everything in his power to stop it.
Chapter 76
Sybella
We wait among the trees until Rohan’s supply wagon comes into view. The cart has a driver and two mounted guards. A lark sounds nearby. A moment later, a small silent missile from Yannic’s slingshot strikes the driver of the cart in the temple. He keels over, so quiet and sudden that the other horsemen keep riding before they realize he is no longer steering. Finally one of them g
lances over his shoulder. “Now what, Remy?”
When Remy doesn’t answer, the man returns to the wagon and peers down at his slumped companion. “How much did Remy have to drink last night?”
As the guard stands there pondering how drunk Remy might be, another silent missile emerges from the trees, this one striking his horse in its flank. It rears up in startled surprise, nearly throwing its rider, as it kicks and bucks, then bolts down the road.
The second mounted soldier calls out after the other, then quickly swings his horse around, his hand going for his sword as he rides back to the cart to see what is going on. Yannic sends a third missile out, this time hitting the horse in the shoulder, eliciting a similar reaction.
The sharp pebbles were Aeva’s idea. They surprise the horses, startle them much as a bee might, but do no lasting harm. We spent an hour debating the merits of hurting the horse or killing the man. In the end, Aeva assured us the effect on the horses would be both brief and forgettable. Since she knows more about horseflesh than the rest of us, we bowed to her judgment. It was much preferable to leaving a trail of bodies behind.
The rest of us emerge from our hiding places, each grabbing a small barrel and stuffing it into a sack, then we make a clumsy, obvious trail leading back to the castle. Better to let Rohan’s men think Marshal Rieux stole his powder and ensure no thoughts of hidden resistance or sabotage enter their minds.
Once we have stashed the powder, Beast brushes off his hands. “And now,” he says, “it’s time we go see if anyone from Marshal Rieux’s garrison has ventured out to meet with us.”
* * *
Beast leaves nothing to chance and sends two of his men ahead to be certain the message hasn’t gone astray and our proposed meeting place been compromised. They return shortly with news that all is clear and we proceed to the menhir that lies just south of the castle.
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