“So?” he asks, gesturing with his goblet. “How did you find the city? Did they treat you well? Deserving of your station?”
His face is unreadable, and I cannot tell if I am walking into a trap or if he is actually curious. “The townspeople were circumspect, although the workmanship of the smiths was not what we are used to.”
He nods, as if he expected nothing else. “And how was the mood of the town? They are always sullen when my soldiers ride through, but that is the way of townspeople toward soldiers. How they received you is a better indication of their true loyalties.”
I think back to the smith and his reluctance to wait on us. Of the nervous glances of the pie seller and how the shopkeepers looked at us with suspicion. I shrug. “They were accommodating enough.”
Jamette turns and looks at me in surprise. It is then that I see her new bauble—a round, pink pearl that dangles in the middle of her forehead from a delicate gold chain. “Did not the smith almost refuse to wait on you?” she says.
I cannot decide which I wish to rip out first—her loose tongue or her too observant eyes. I do not think she was close enough to the smith and me to make out the actual words between us. “I fear you are mistaken. He was merely unsure of whether he could have the job done in the time I required.”
“Oh,” she says, looking faintly sheepish.
I turn back to my father, wanting to make certain the smith will not fall into his disfavor. “He was courteous, if a bit provincial. And his wife was most obsequious.”
“That is too bad,” my father says.
Marshal Rieux looks at him in surprise. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
My father grins, truly one of his most horrifying expressions. “I was looking forward to making an example of their lack of respect.”
A chill scuttles down my spine and I try to think of something to divert his attention from the smith. I receive help from an unexpected quarter.
Pierre, who has had too much wine, raises his glass. “Instead, we should make an example of the duchess and ride on Rennes!” Baron Vienne’s wife sits at his side, ignored and forgotten. She looks as if she has aged ten years over the past few days, whether because of her husband’s recent death or Pierre’s attentions, I cannot be sure.
Julian looks at him askance. “Except that they are too well supplied and can easily withstand a siege. We will be left standing on the battlefield looking like fools.”
“Not with our might,” Pierre slurs.
Julian pointedly waves away the page who is waiting to refill Pierre’s goblet. “Might counts for nothing if we cannot get inside the city walls.”
D’Albret’s expression turns sly and he begins playing with the stem of his goblet. “Ah, but what if we had help from inside,” he says, and my heart drops. Has the duchess not purged her council of all the traitors? There is no one left, by my reckoning. All of the traitors sit here at this table.
“Help?” Rieux says, clearly puzzled.
D’Albret draws out the moment, draining his wineglass and waiting for the steward to refill it before continuing. “I have sent men to infiltrate the ranks of the mercenaries Captain Dunois has hired to augment the duchess’s troops. They have been ordered to ensure they are assigned to the vulnerable parts of the city—the gates, the bridges, the sewers; anyplace that could provide an entrance point.
“Once they are in position, we will have several chinks in her armor to use at our convenience. When the time is right, they will be able to open the city gate for us. Once our forces are inside, it will be easy enough to overpower her guardsmen and man the ramparts with our own. The duchess’s sanctuary will quickly become her prison.” He smiles, his teeth brilliantly white against the blackness of his beard.
It is clear that d’Albret’s unbridled ambition will yield to nothing but death. The thought of his forces descending on Rennes and invading the city causes my stomach to shrivel into a sour knot.
Pierre raises his goblet in salute. “Is now the time to send her our message, my lord?”
D’Albret stills, and for one long moment, I fear he will hurl his goblet at Pierre. Instead, he smiles. “Tomorrow, whelp. We will send her our message tomorrow.”
It appears the injured knight has just run out of time.
Chapter Fourteen
I LEAVE JULIAN SPRAWLED in a chair by the fire. His head is thrown back, his mouth agape. He almost looks dead. Indeed, I thought—briefly—about killing him, but in the end, I could not. Not even after all he has done. We have survived too much together, been each other’s allies when no one else would stand by us.
Besides, he is one of the few things that has ever loved me and survived.
He will feel groggy and ill from the overdose of sleeping draft I gave him, but it is no more than he deserves for coming to my chamber uninvited. Just the thought that I will never again have to endure his nightly scratching at my door is enough to lighten my step.
Once I have armed myself with every weapon I own—the knives, the daggers, and the garrotes—I slip from my room. Indeed, I feel like a traveling tinker with as many potions, weapons, and tools as I carry on me. I am lucky I do not clink my way down the stairs.
There are few enough options left to me, and there is no room for error. I will finally fulfill my wish to kill d’Albret—or at least, I will attempt to. If I fail—and there is a good chance I may—then it is even more important that the knight live, for he must escape the fate d’Albret has planned for him and get a warning to the duchess as soon as possible.
I am the only one in a position to stop d’Albret. And even my chances are slim, since my plan relies on a grievously injured knight and my own limited skill.
Nearly all the servants and men-at-arms in the palace are asleep as I make my way from my chamber to the courtyard. It did not come easily, and has taken every drop of poison in the pearls from the hairnet and glass beads on my crucifix chain. I slipped all of it into the men’s dinner while the stew still bubbled in the pot hanging at the fire. Such a diluted dose will put the entire garrison to sleep, but only for a few hours. When they wake, they will feel as if they have been trampled by a herd of oxen, but at least they will be alive.
I would have loved to poison them all, for if they are loyal to my father, they do not have an innocent bone in their body. But killing so many men reeks too much of one of d’Albret’s schemes. Instead, I satisfy myself with the knowledge of how much trouble they will be in when morning comes and the full impact of my night’s activities becomes clear.
Only the guards on duty at the eastern gate will present trouble, for they have not had their suppers yet. I will have to deal with them in order to get the prisoner to the waiting cart.
The cart cost me dear, as the night-soil man was loath to lose the source of his livelihood. But when presented with enough jewelry, he finally agreed to empty the cart and drive its mysterious load out the east gate. Of course, I did not pay him with my own finery but with Jamette’s. It was easy enough to slip into her room and take a handful of the baubles her betrayal of me had brought her.
As I draw closer and closer to the tower, the weight of secrets and careful movement, of illusions maintained and lies convincingly whispered, falls from my shoulders, leaving me so light I wonder that I do not float across the courtyard.
I reach the old tower and slip the key into the lock. My blood is moving so wildly through my veins that I hardly even notice the waiting spirits as they rush toward me, their chilling presence barely penetrating the heat of the moment.
At the foot of the stairs, I pause long enough to pull my hood close to shield my face from view, then nearly laugh at the gesture. After tonight, it does not matter any longer. Even so, old habits do not die easily, and I leave the hood in place.
I have thought long and hard on what to do with the jailor. I am surprisingly reluctant to kill him, for every kill I make without Mortain’s blessing is but one more step to embracing the very evil I loathe in d’Albret. But I cannot risk his ruining my plans, for if the knight is too wounded to ride to Rennes, I will have no choice but to put him out of his misery, as undoubtedly he has suffered enough.
Besides, if I fail and d’Albret lives through the night, any punishment he bestows on the jailor will make the little man wish he had died. Looking at it that way, it is clear I will be doing him a favor by killing him.
When I peer through the grille I think perhaps some god is smiling on this venture after all, for the old jailor lies on the floor, sound asleep. If I can get to him without waking him, he should be easy enough to deal with.
I step quietly into the dungeon. There is no sound from the prisoner’s cell, and the gargoyle does not stir. Perfect. I creep closer and lift my knife, ready to slit the man’s throat. But before I can strike, the little demon leaps up and swings at me with his empty tankard.
I hiss and dodge the blow. The jailor grunts and then faces me, and any chance I had for surprise is gone.
“Surrender and be done with this,” I tell him, careful to pitch my voice low. “You cannot stop me.”
I lunge for him, but he twists away—how can one so clumsy and awkward move so quickly?—and throws himself in front of the cell door.
Keeping my eyes on his contorted little face, I change my plan. “I will not kill you. Just put you to sleep for a while. Just long enough to free the prisoner. You will have a goose egg on your head and can explain to the others how you were overpowered and were helpless to prevent the escape.”
At the word escape the little man stills and cocks his head. He pauses for a long moment, then carefully steps away from the door and motions me toward it.
I frown. What trick is this?
The little man gestures at me to open the door while he nods and smiles. At least, I think it is a smile, for it is hard to tell in his creased, misshapen face. “You want me to free him?” I ask.
He nods vehemently, then takes another step back.
I cannot begin to fathom what his purpose is, but time is not standing still for me to figure it out. D’Albret will be on his way to visit Madame Dinan’s chamber, if he is not already there, and that will afford me my greatest chance of catching him unawares. “Very well, come with me.” I motion toward the cell. I will not risk his shutting me in with the prisoner, then crying for help. He nods happily but scuttles away like a spider.
Keeping one eye on him, I withdraw the key again and unlock the cell door. The ripe stench makes me blink but I ignore it and hurry over to the corner where the prisoner lies on the floor.
He is the size of a giant. Any hope I had of being able to drag him anywhere, let alone up a flight of stairs, evaporates. He does not stir at my approach, but neither did the little gargoyle, so I remain on my guard. When he still doesn’t move after a few moments, I reach out and nudge him with the toe of my boot. Nothing.
At a sound behind me, I spin around, dagger at the ready. But it is only the gargoyle standing there, watching. I narrow my eyes. “Is he dead?”
An emphatic shake of the head, then the man places his hands against his own cheek as if sleeping. Ah, I think. “Can he walk?” I ask sharply.
The old man hesitates, then puts his hand out and wiggles it back and forth. A little. Maybe. My heart sinks. There is no way I can drag him. Merde. How will I ever get word to the duchess?
I kneel down next to the knight so I can see just how injured he is. A large cut bisects the left side of his face. I think, but cannot be certain, that it is an old scar rather than a fresh one. The rest of his face is battered, and old crusted blood still clings to it in places. It is also a strange yellow and green color. At first, I fear it is putrid flesh, then realize his entire face is one giant bruise. A great wound festers in his left leg, and another two in his left arm. I take a deep breath, then put my hand on his shoulder. “Hsst! Wake up. We must get moving.”
He stirs, then groans, but that is all. Muttering a string of curses, I reach out and try again, this time grabbing his arm in a pincer-like grip and tugging on it. “Come on, you great ox. I cannot carry you out of here.”
His massive head rolls to the side, then lifts a few inches from the floor. The eyes open and squint in my direction. I cannot tell if his vision is blurry from his head wound or if he cannot see me at all. I look over my shoulder at the jailor who is no jailor. “Get over here and help me.”
He scuttles forward, hops onto the other side of the knight, and grabs his arm. With much grunting and urging and swearing, we manage to get the prisoner to a sitting position, but that is all. Despair begins to fill me, more chilling than the touch of the spirits hovering nearby. The man’s injuries are inflamed and he himself is feverish. If I am able to get him out of here, I am not certain—not certain at all—that he will not die of blood fever on the way to Rennes. Even so, I must try. I nod to the gargoyle and we both stand, trying to pull the prisoner up with us, but it is no use. We might as well be attempting to move the dungeon itself.
I nearly weep with frustration. If I were more certain of my ability to kill d’Albret tonight, I could just put the prisoner out of his misery, but I am not. D’Albret is uncanny in his instinct for survival, and if I fail, someone must warn the duchess of his plans.
Besides, what sort of cruel god robs a man of a glorious death on the battlefield and leaves him to rot—or worse—in a dungeon? If I close my eyes, I can still see him on his magnificent horse before they brought him down; how valiantly he fought, never stopping, not even when the odds were overwhelming.
That’s it! I must find a way to tap into his battle lust. The very thing that drives him to such unholy feats on the battlefield is the only thing that will get him out of here.
