Dark Triumph
Page 33
Chancellor Montauban frowns. “You cannot take on a thousand French troops with a handful of charcoal-burners,” he says, and I cannot help but wonder if he truly knows Beast at all.
“No, but we can provide a painful diversion that will allow the British a chance to land.”
“It is possible,” Duval says, sounding hopeful for the first time in days.
“As we travel, I will raise the countryside against these intruders who would pluck our very land out from under our noses. Perhaps some of them can join us in Morlaix.”
“I still say we cannot put our trust in the charbonnerie,” Chancellor Montauban says. “They are too unpredictable, too rebellious. I fear they will run when we need them the most.”
Beast’s eyes when they meet the chancellor’s are as frigid as ice on a pond. “They have given their word, Chancellor. And I, for one, am inclined to believe it.”
“But they are not well versed in the art of warfare,” Chalon points out. “We do not have time to train them for battle.”
Beast leans forward. “That is the beauty of the charbonnerie. They do not fight with conventional tactics. Rather, they use stealth, cunning, and surprise. Deception and ambush are their most effective weapons.”
“But there is no honor in that,” Chalon protests.
“There is no honor in defeat either,” Duval points out. “I cannot help but wonder if d’Albret’s move is timed to coincide with this latest French attack. Did he know our aid from the English would be delayed, and is that why he marches now?”
“We will know soon enough.” The abbess speaks into the quiet room. “The Lady Sybella will be returning to her post with d’Albret’s household, so we will have access to his plans, hopefully before he acts on them.”
The duchess turns to me with stricken eyes, and Ismae’s face goes white as snow. “But it is no longer safe for her there! He must know—or at least suspect—that she aided Beast in his escape.”
“It is not a question of safety, Your Grace, but of how we can best serve you, and, through you, Mortain.”
“Your loyal and dedicated service is duly noted, Reverend Mother.” The wry note in Duval’s voice reassures me that he does not wholly trust her either.
There is a long moment of silence, then the duchess speaks again. “I fear I must agree with Beast and the chamberlain, my lords,” she says. “We have few options available to us. I believe we will give these charbonnerie a chance to prove themselves.”
I will not be the only one riding to a likely death on the morrow—Beast will be as well.
Chapter Thirty-Four
WHEN THE MEETING FINALLY BREAKS up, I rise to my feet and make my way to the door. I can feel Ismae watching me, begging me to turn and look at her, but I do not. I cannot. Not now. Beast, too, is boring holes in my back with the intensity of his stare, but I ignore him as well. What I need most right now is the privacy and sanctity of my bedchamber.
I reach my room and bolt the door behind me, vowing to open it for no one.
Think. I must think.
This latest news makes walking away infinitely more possible.
The reverend mother would not know for days. Weeks, even. And by then, d’Albret will either have won or been defeated, the direction of the war and our country determined. Duval would protect Ismae and keep her from being sent in my place when the abbess learns that I did not go. And at that point it will be too late for Annith to be of any use.
It is a good plan. A solid plan. Just thinking about it causes the tightness in my chest to ease somewhat.
I begin packing. I will take only those things that will make the reverend mother believe my deception, so only those items a camp follower would own. The laundress gown, and my weapons, of course. All my knives, but not the fancy garrote bracelets, as they are too fine for a mere camp follower to possess. Besides, I can strangle a man just as easily using his own belt.
As I carefully pack the knives I will carry, I marvel at how my desire to kill d’Albret once shaped my life and gave it meaning. But that was before . . . before what? When did my heart turn away from its willingness to die if need be in order to kill d’Albret?
Perhaps once I escaped, once I was no longer in his orbit or infected with the bleak despair that enveloped me while I was in his household. Or mayhap my short time away from him has reminded me that there are things worth living for. There are good people in this world, in this duchy. Those who mean to do all they can to stop d’Albret. Living inside his walls, it was all too easy to forget that.
There is the thrill of a fast horse, and the sun and wind in your face. The rare—and all the more precious for it—moments of laughter to be had. The excitement of seeing Mortain’s marque and knowing the hunt is about to begin. The look in someone’s eye when he truly sees you—not just your face and hair, but the very essence of your soul.
It is a raw and uncomfortable realization that Beast is partly behind this newfound will to live. Not for him, but because he reminded me of what life has to offer. He lives life so joyously—it is impossible not to want that joy for oneself.
My fingers drift to the ring I wear on my right hand, my last resort should my situation ever become unbearable.
Suddenly, my lungs cannot take in enough air and my head grows light. No matter how I wish it to be different, in spite of all our efforts, in spite of every saboteur I have rooted out, I still fear in my heart that d’Albret will win in the end. That he will seize the city and bring it to its knees.
And everyone in it.
Oh, they will fight. All of Anne’s nobles and advisors and men-at-arms will do their best to protect her. And they will die trying, for d’Albret’s ability to inflict death is unsurpassed.
I can see it unfold so clearly in my mind’s eye.
He will fight his way to Anne personally, his long sword slicing through her guard as if they were soft cheese. It is possible my brothers will be at his side, attempting once again to earn his favor.
Ismae and Duval will guard the duchess with their lives—and that is precisely what it will cost them. Once they have paid with those, d’Albret will turn his vengeance upon Anne.
He might not hurt her at first. He will most likely hold Isabeau as hostage, knowing only too well that is where Anne’s heart lies.
I stare down at the small bundle on my bed. What if I were able to stop him, but didn’t? What will my freedom have cost in blood? Will not the very things I hope to live for be lost?
In that moment, I know that I must do as I have been ordered. Not for the abbess, or the convent, or even Mortain.
But for those I have grown to love.
It is late when I leave my chamber to seek out Ismae, but there is still much activity about as the palace prepares for Beast’s departure and the coming siege. Ismae is not in her bedchamber so I head to Duval’s apartments within the palace. It is the only place I can think to look, short of the abbess’s chambers or the duchess’s. It appears I am in luck, for when I reach his door, I sense two pulses beating within. I knock softly.
Duval opens the door. A brief flash of surprise crosses his face when he sees that it is me. “My lady?”
I give him a wry smile. “I have actually come in search of Ismae,” I tell him.
“No.” I reach out and grab his arm. “You need to hear what I must say.”
“Very well.” He turns and leads me into his chamber, where I find Ismae curled up in front of the fire, sipping a goblet of wine.
When she sees me, she sets the wine down and leaps to her feet. “Sybella! Where have you been? None of the pages we sent could find you.”
With a guilty start, I remember the series of knocks on my chamber door. “I was packing.”
“You are going?” she whispers.
Unable to speak, I nod.
She takes a step closer. “It is not right,” she says fiercely. “It must be someone else’s turn. I will go.”
Duval looks at her in alarm. “No one will go. We do not need the information at the cost of your lives.”
“I am not here to whine about my fate. I am here to extract a promise from you.” I slip the ring from my finger and hold it out to Duval. “Give this to your lady sister. Make her wear it. Should your last line of defense fail, it will be her best way out.”
Duval stares down at the ring. “I cannot do what you suggest.”
I grab his hand, shove the ring into it, then close his fingers around it. “You must. Trust me. Death will be preferable to d’Albret getting his hands on your sister. He has had far too long to plan all the ways he can break and humiliate her and bring her as much pain as he thinks she’s brought him. Whatever else happens, you must not let him get his hands on her. Her death will be long and unpleasant.”
He looks faintly sick but accepts the ring. “Do you promise?” I ask.
He looks into my eyes. Whatever he sees there convinces him. “I promise.”
Something inside my chest relaxes somewhat. “Thank you.”
“No—thank you. And for what horrors you have suffered, and what further horrors you will be subjected to, I am genuinely sorry. Know that my sister, that all of us hold this sacrifice of yours close to our hearts.”
His words bring tears to my eyes, but I blink them away and get down to business. “Ismae, I came to see if I could borrow your rondelles.”
“My offer was a serious one. I wish to go in your place.”
“I know you do.” I reach out and take her hands in mine. “Which is why you are so very dear to me. But you have duties you must see to here. I fully expect you and Duval to be the last ones standing between the duchess and d’Albret should the city not hold.”
She throws her arms around me and I savor the feel of her holding me close, treasuring me. Then I pull away. “Now. About those weapons . . .”
After some discussion, Ismae gives me her rondelles and half of her poison supply. Now all I must do is wait until daybreak to be on my way. As I leave Duval’s chamber, the urge to seek out Beast is nearly overwhelming. I promise myself I will face him in the morning, and I will tell him everything. Once I have made my confession to him, I can meet death with a clean conscience.
Before the sun has cleared the horizon I am dressed and heading toward the stable. It is not lost on me that of all the things in my life I have dreaded, telling Beast this simple truth is one of the most terrifying.
I find him in the stables, supervising the preparation of the mounts. Instead of using the thick staff they have given him as an aid to walking, he is waving it around, pointing and ordering the others with it. Yannic is with him, and more charbonnerie than I can count. My heart beats so loud I am surprised they do not all turn and stare at the sound, but they are so absorbed in their work that they do not even see me at first.
I try to call out to Beast, but I open my mouth and no words come. I must have made some small sound, however, for Beast turns around, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of me, and he limps his way over to where I stand.
“I was hoping you’d come to see us off, else I’d have to come looking for you.”
That heartens me, that he planned to say goodbye.
“I have something I would talk to you of in private.”
Beast raises his eyebrows and follows me out into the stable yard. Afraid I will lose my nerve, I look down at my hands, which are clutched together so tightly that my fingers have turned white. I relax my grip. “There is something I must explain to you. I have meant to tell you many times, but there was never a good moment.”
He does not so much as flinch, although his eyes become as unreadable as polished steel.
“At first I did not tell you because I was afraid you would not trust me, and I needed your trust so I could get you to Rennes safely. I had hoped that once we were here, no one would have to know my identity. It is not something I am proud of. But that did not—”
“Sybella?”
“Yes?”
“Please know if there were any other way to accomplish this, I would use it.”
“Accomplish what?” I ask, puzzled.
The look in his eyes is tender, and he moves closer so that I wonder if he plans to kiss me. Then his hand flashes, sure and quick, and the world grows black.
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE NEXT THING I KNOW, all the devils of hell are hammering at my jaw, just under my chin, but I do not care nearly as much as I might, for I feel safe. I appear to be in a cave. A warm cave of stone that completely surrounds me, pressing firmly into my back, sheltering me.
I hear a soft whicker—a horse?—then a man’s low voice. “You didn’t tell us we could bring a bit of skirt along.”
A second voice. “It’s not a bit o’ skirt, dolt. The captain would never bestir himself for a trollop.”
“Well, what is she, then?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Enough,” a familiar voice growls.
A throat clears. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s wrong with her, Captain?” The tone is much more respectful now.
There is a pause, and then the cave wall behind my back rumbles. “She fainted.”
I wrench my eyes open, then clamp them shut as harsh bright sunlight pierces my brain and a wave of nausea washes over me. Slowly, my mind sharpens enough to understand that I am not in a cave but clamped between thick, strong arms. The firmness at my back is not a wall of stone, but an armored breastplate. We are moving with a gentle rolling gait.