When at last I reach the dungeons, I use my torch to light the others in the sparring room, collect the swords from their hiding place in the storeroom, and head for the oubliette. “Are you awake?” I call down.
“Should I not be?”
I set my torch down and slide the bolt loose. “It is early,” I tell him as I open the grate.
I can almost hear him shrug. “I have no measure of time here.”
“Fair enough.” I toss the rope down, then draw my baselard as I wait for him to climb up. I have chosen swords today as I prefer the distance they put between us.
Maraud’s head emerges from the dark hole, followed by his arms. As he levers himself up onto the floor, I am startled to see that both of his hands are bound in rags. I forgot to make him the salve I promised. “What happened to you?”
He swings his legs up and out of the oubliette, shrugging sheepishly. “I have not held a weapon for over a year. My hands have lost their calluses and grown soft. When I descended the rope yesterday, it scraped the blisters open.”
“Will you be able to hold a sword?”
He sends me a mocking look as he rises to his feet. “So now you are my nursemaid as well as my sparring partner?”
“Hardly. I only want to make sure our session is worth my while. Now, if you are done whining, let’s get to work.”
His lips twitch as I motion for him to proceed me into the room. Once there, I toss the wooden sword at him, watching carefully when he catches it. He winces, but only slightly. “Back to swords?”
“You said you had more tricks to teach me, and I would like to learn some of them today.”
He raises his sword, and I raise mine. “I have in mind to show you how to compensate for both your smaller size and shorter reach. Both will be vulnerabilities in a true fight.” He parries, quickly altering the direction of his sword from left to right to left again. “Your footing is a disadvantage. My lunges and strides are half again as long as yours. You must move faster and quicker, taking two small steps back for every one of mine, or you will soon find my blade against your nose.”
He is right, I think. We could never have trained for this in the smaller room.
Even so, I block his attack easily. “My reach does not seem to be an issue here.”
“No?” He pivots and attacks my blade with a series of diagonal swings. It is all I can do to keep him at bay.
Because I must extend my arm farther, it will tire before he does. I feint to the left, then leap to the right, creating an opening for me to get inside his guard.
But he is prepared for that and blocks my blow hard enough to cause my teeth to clack.
Irritated now, I grab my sword with both hands and use all my force for a downward strike on his blade, close to the hilt.
As I’d hoped, the force of it causes him to drop his blade, although I am certain if his hands were not injured, he would not have done so. With satisfaction, I bring the point of my sword up to rest against his heart. Our eyes meet. “And now what do you think of my reach?”
He grins, almost apologetically, then grabs ahold of the blade. Before I can so much as gasp in surprise, the point of my own weapon is turned toward me and rests upon my heart. His eyes are expressionless.
“Well done,” I concede, although I am loath to admit it. “Now what trick do I use to get out of this position?” For some reason, my voice sounds thin, thready.
“You don’t.” His voice is soft and apologetic. My heart plummets down to my feet, my body somehow understanding what is happening before my mind can absorb it.
His hands were never injured at all. The bandages were to protect them from the sharp edge of my sword.
“Don’t go for your dagger,” he orders. With his free hand, he pulls a knife from some hiding place. It is made of bone—bone from one of the meals I fed him—and has been carefully sharpened against the stone of his prison until the end is a wicked—if rough—point.
“I need you to drop it onto the floor.” There is true regret in his voice, as if this pains him in some way.
Fury sits in my throat like a hot coal, but I have no choice but to do as he asks. I reach for the stiletto up my left sleeve. While his eyes are focused on my knife, I slip my fingers into the cuff inside that same sleeve to retrieve the needle case hidden there. Moving suddenly, I toss the stiletto onto the floor. As I’d hoped, it draws his eye long enough for me to hide the case in my palm.
“Is this some new trick you are teaching me?” I ask to further distract him. “If so, I do not care for it.”
“No. Not a trick. I am leaving, and you are coming with me.”
My fingers fumbling with the needles grow still. “Coming with you? Am I to be your hostage? I assure you, no one will pay a centime for me.”
His face curls in disgust. “Not my hostage. We will escape together. You yourself said you were a prisoner here.” His voice is low, urgent, and as seductive as when it first rose up out of the oubliette to greet me.
And that voice now holds a sword at my throat. It is such a huge betrayal that fury lashes through me. I lean forward, using the movement to conceal my hand behind my skirts. “If you wanted to escape together, you could at least have included me in your plans.”
“I thought about it,” he admits. “But wasn’t certain you would agree and couldn’t risk showing my hand.”
My fingers unfold the supple leather of the case. “Just how long have you been planning this?”
“A while.”
That spark of fury crackles along my skin. “How long is a while? Ever since I first brought you food and water? Ever since I saved you from starving to death? Or was it after that? When I brought you news of the outer world. Trusted you—trusted your word.”
He takes a step toward me. “I have been planning my escape for over a year. It is the one thing that kept me alive. Kept me from giving up. I was planning it long before you stumbled upon my prison. You just happened to be the first opportunity that presented itself.”
His words are like the blade of a knife—I was never anything but an opportunity to him. “So you were planning it before we even came to our sparring agreement?” When we were naught but voices in the dark, easing our loneliness? My fingers count along the tops of the needles until they reach the ones with the knots of thread.
“Yes,” he says softly. “But that does not mean that any of what I have said was not true. It was and is. I still have no wish to harm you or put you in danger.”
“You have an odd way of convincing me.” There! The needle is firmly grasped between my finger and thumb, the point of it a safe distance from my own skin.
“I proved it all the times I did not move against you.”
I shake my head. “That was not honor. That was stringing me along on a line, hoping I would lead you to a bigger fish. And I have! By trusting you enough to agree to this room, I have given you a much greater chance of success. Do not pretend it was anything other than you trying to set up the best opportunity for yourself that you could. At least be honest about it.”
“Until you have been shut in a hole for months on end, with no food, no light, little water, and even less hope, do not lecture me about honesty. The only thing that kept me going was my vow to find vengeance for those wrongly slain before my very eyes. That vow comes before all others I have given.”
His face grows soft again, and he lowers the sword slightly to take half a step toward me. “But now is your chance to be free. You are not happy here. You hope for adventure or you would not be training as you do. We can find it together, once we are away.”
My attack will not require much movement. If he is trying to persuade me to escape with him, he will hopefully not run me through due to a flick of my hand. Even so, it is a risk I must take. “With me doing what, precisely? Being your lightskirt? Your laundress?”
His eyes widen in offended surprise. Now! I whip my hand out, jam the needle into his forearm, then quickly ya
nk my hand back to my side so he will not think I am trying to wrest the sword from him.
“Ouch!” He frowns in both pain and annoyance. “What was that?”
“That, O False One, is a trick of my own.”
He blinks rapidly as his vision begins to blur. The arm holding the sword starts to tremble slightly.
“What kind of trick?”
“The kind I wore up my sleeve in case you turned out to be as false as you are. I wish you sweet dreams.”
“Dreams? What are you talk—” His voice stops abruptly and the sword clatters to the floor. His eyelids flutter and his body loosens, like a puppet cut from his strings.
Realizing I will be in trouble if he hits the ground—he is far too big for me to carry—I leap forward and wedge myself under his shoulder just as he goes slack.
“Wha haf you done ter me?” he slurs.
“There, there, now,” I assure him as I get my arm around his waist and steer him toward the door. “It is just a bit of poison.”
“Poyshum!” The garbled word is filled with alarm. Fortunately, the poison has not reached his legs yet and I am able to clumsily guide him out of the sparring room toward the oubliette.
“Ewe poyshumed mme.” His lips have grown numb and are tinged with blue.
“It isn’t enough to kill you. Or it shouldn’t be, at any rate. With luck, you will just sleep for a bit.”
“Can’t schleep. Mussht eshcape.” When we are only halfway to the grate, his entire body stiffens briefly, then grows utterly limp and begins to slip to the floor.
Figs! He is too heavy for me to hold up. I have no choice but to let him fall.
As I fold my arms and stare down at his motionless form stretched out on the stone, a dark swirl of emotions writhes inside my heart. I cannot believe what he has done. Cannot believe that, once again, I have allowed myself to be lulled into trusting someone.
Resisting the urge to kick him, I get down on my knees and roll his unconscious body toward the grate. The only thing keeping me from feeling like a fool is that I have always known this was a possibility and prepared accordingly. It is that very planning that has stopped him today.
It is the hollowest of victories.
By the time I reach the oubliette, I am hot and sweating and angrier than ever.
I briefly consider going down first to make sure his pile of moldy straw is directly beneath the grate to soften his landing, then scoff at myself. He held a sword to my throat and was going to escape—after all I’d done for him and the assurances he’d given.
I study his sleeping face, trying to see if the signs of his treachery are written upon it. If they are, I cannot see them, even now. I have half a mind to pry open his mouth and inspect his tongue to see if it is forked. Instead, I place my hands on his shoulders and hips and roll him into the opening of the oubliette. He folds in half and disappears down the hole, followed by a solid thunk as he hits the floor.
I sit on my knees a moment, breathing hard, then stand up, slam the grate closed, slide the bolt in, and lock it. Our sparring sessions have come to an end. And I was the one who emerged victorious. Now all that is left for me to do is leave.
Chapter 50
Sybella
e give it a week before we make our move—enough time for the household to fall into a recognizable rhythm. Waking, mass, dinner with entertainment. In the afternoon, the king pays a visit to the queen. Inevitably, the regent contrives to be there just prior to his arrival.
But this morning when the regent and her retinue arrive to oversee her toilette, the queen is already out of bed, washed, and dressed. I stand on her right, Aeva on her left. Heloise, Elsibet, and the others stand behind us, a solid phalanx. “Good morning, Madame Regent. Would you care to accompany us to the chapel?” The queen’s invitation is delivered in the most dulcet tones, as if she would like nothing more than for the regent to accompany us.
The regent’s mouth crimps in annoyance. “But we shall be quite early if we leave now.” Her faint note of dismay nearly makes up for the extra time I will be forced to endure chapel.
The queen gives her a sunny smile. “That will give us all the more time to pray.” She nods cheerfully to us, and we fall in line behind her as she leads the way. The regent has no choice but to follow or be left behind.
* * *
The next morning, the regent arrives even earlier, but we have anticipated this and are dressed and waiting for her. This time, she gets the message, and when mass is over, we are all yawning our fool heads off. The queen is so tired from our early mornings that she falls asleep immediately after lunch before the king has even come for his daily visit. Disgusted, the regent collects most of her ladies and leaves. As she passes me, she pauses. The spiteful gleam in her eye has my fingers itching for my knife.
Her hooded gaze sweeps over me. “The queen takes great strength from you, doesn’t she, Lady Sybella?” Before I can respond to her observation, she sweeps out of the room. Moments later, the king arrives for his afternoon visit.
Heloise offers to go wake the queen from her nap, but he stops her. “No,” he says. “Let me. I have always wanted to wake a sleeping princess.” The women smile at this bit of romantic foolery as they quietly open the door for him.
He does not emerge from her room for the rest of the afternoon, which gives me plenty of time to wrestle with the regent’s words—were they an acknowledgment that we had won the rout, or a threat?
* * *
During our first week here, I have had time to identify a handful of attendants who might have come from the convent. They are of the right age, with hair that could possibly be described as Genevieve’s was. But that is so little to go on. I do not even know if they are using their real names or have taken different ones.
Instead, I have had to look for contradictions or inconsistencies. Women who keep to themselves, or those who allow themselves to be separated from the group and thus provide opportunities to be approached, have ended up on my list. I have also noted those who seem most interested in the queen, or those who feign exaggerated disinterest—as both could indicate a spy’s strategy.
This morning as everyone files out of the chapel, I wait for one of the regent’s attendants who is exceptionally devout, outpraying even the duchess.
What better way to keep attention from inconsistencies in one’s own faith?
She also wears an elaborate rosary that reminds me of the one the convent made for me when I was first sent out, its heavy ornate cross easily able to serve as the hilt for a hidden dagger.
Her name—Honorée—shows possibilities as well. It is a sly choice for one who has been sent to spy. And Mortain knows we could use a spy’s insight to the regent and her plots.
When she finally rises from her knees to follow the others, I slip out of the last pew where I’ve been waiting. As I fall into step alongside her, she draws back slightly, trying to put space between us.
I give her a warm smile of greeting, but all I receive in return is a cool nod. I press on. “Forgive me for intruding, but I have been admiring your rosary. It is exquisite, and I wondered if you might tell me where you had it made.”
She clutches the string of beads in her hand as if fearing I will take it from her on the spot. “It has been in my family for well over two hundred years. I would not even know where to suggest you look for something of comparable quality.”
My initial disappointment is quickly overtaken by annoyance. “That is too bad, as it has drawn the queen’s eye. But thank you for the courtesy you have shown me. I shall be certain to report your kindness to the queen.” The smile I give her is warm enough to melt butter, but I make certain it does not reach my eyes, wanting the sharp-tongued shrew to stew in the knowledge she has just landed on the wrong side of the queen.
Chapter 51
Genevieve
t does not take long for my conscience to poke at me. I decide to check on the prisoner to be certain he d
id not break something in the fall and has recovered from the poison. Even in small doses, it can be unpredictable.
Besides, I feel I should tell him I won’t be returning. Not that he deserves even that much.
There is no call of greeting or noise of any kind as I approach the oubliette. I pause for a moment and listen in the darkness to see if I can feel an extra heartbeat, wondering if I have miscalculated the poison. But no. There is no heartbeat except mine inside my chest.
When I reach the iron grate, I set my sack of food down and kneel to unlock the padlock. “Are you dead?” I put a healthy dose of cheer into my voice. He need never know how much his betrayal stung.
A deep groan of misery rises up from the darkness. “I wish it were so,” he mutters.
I slide back the bolt and hoist open the grate. Instead of lowering myself down into the hole, I gather my skirts and sit the floor, allowing my legs to dangle into the oubliette as if it were a cool stream on a hot summer day. “What hurts?” I ask. “Your stomach or your head?”
“Everything,” he growls.
“Yes, but which hurts most? I don’t know if you broke any bones when I dumped you back into your hole. If your skull is cracked, it might be best if you don’t eat quite yet.”
There is a faint whisper of movement as he checks his head. “I don’t feel any lumps or cracks. And everything moves more or less as it ought to.”
“Well, that is good news.” I take a pear from the sack and bite into it, letting the fragrant juice drip down into the oubliette.
“What happened? What did you do to me?”
“I stabbed you with a poisoned needle. But don’t worry. It wasn’t a fatal dose. You’ll feel sick for another day or so and then be back to your normal, treacherous self.”
My own voice is jovial, happy even, as if his actions have had no impact on me. “Are you hungry?”
He groans again. “Yes. No. Maybe. My stomach feels ungodly empty, but it also roils like a boiling pot. I’m not sure I could eat.”
Courting Darkness Page 27
