Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  My gaze seeks out Alips, and I wonder if the charcoal dust will fool her in broad daylight. To my relief, she is not among our group of travelers. I recognize some of them from the village—​Blavot the chandler, as tall and thin as the candles he makes. Herbin the butcher and his wife, Jacquette. The miller’s wife, Matilde, is among us, wearing a furred tunic and carrying a bow and arrow. As is Rogier the stonemason, who has been working on the chateau remodels that Angoulême has undertaken. But no other household servants that I can see. Best of all, no one’s gaze lingers overlong on me or Maraud.

  It is an easy group, talking and laughing as they walk. Some carry bundles attached to their backs. Others have their masks tucked up under their arms. The stonemason pushes a handcart full of casks and drums, while Herbin drives a wagon pulled by two oxen. A handful of matrons sit on the back end, their feet dangling over the side. A various assortment of children tag along, like a long, wiggling, giggling tail.

  A number of them take great sport in following Maraud, the terrifying wolf’s head of his cape hanging down his back, leering at them upside down. Occasionally one grows bold enough to run forward and tug at his tail before quickly darting away with a squeal of terrified laughter. I glance up at Maraud to see how he is taking this, my words shriveling before I can utter them.

  It is the first time I have seen him in good light. This morning, even as he gazed at my face, I avoided his. Besides, the sun was streaming in through the window directly into my eyes.

  In spite of his overlong hair and his beard—​which should be bushy and matted from his time in captivity but instead manages to accentuate his strong features—​he is . . . Rutting figs! There is no word for it but handsome.

  He turns to me just then, our gazes meeting. “Can you feel it?” he whispers.

  “Feel what?” Mortified at being caught, the word comes out hoarse, croaked.

  He leans in closer, and the lips I have just been admiring form the word: “Freedom.”

  Released from my embarrassment, I huff out a breath. “Yes. I do.”

  He smiles at me, a flash of strong white teeth against the darkness of his beard, then grows serious. “And for that, I thank you.”

  His sense of indebtedness sits as uncomfortably as a nail-studded shirt. “Perhaps you have simply traded one prison for another,” I say lightly.

  He looks at me as if he knows better—​as if he knows me better—​than that. Ignoring my provocation, he pulls his wolf skin closer against the crisp chill of the morning. “So,” he lowers his voice. “Were you sent to rescue me?”

  Now that I know who he is, the question makes more sense. “Assassins don’t rescue moldering prisoners.”

  An odd expression appears on his face. “Were you sent to kill me?”

  I stare back at him. Was I? Was that why I heard his heart beating that day? Should I have grabbed a torch and examined him for a marque? The thought never crossed my mind at the time. It was too far outside what the abbess had instructed us to do. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes. There is that.” He grins. It is wide and welcoming, inviting all who see it to be drawn into his net. Surely it is as dangerous as his sword arm. “Perhaps my charms swayed you from your purpose and you chose to rescue me instead.”

  Does he truly think me so weak and softhearted? Fool. It is just my luck to have stumbled upon the one mercenary lacking in cynicism.

  “If you must thank anyone,” I tell him, my words as tart as an unripe apple, “it should be the god of mistakes, for surely it was Salonius himself who led me to you.”

  He blows on his hands, then rubs them together. “Maybe the god of mistakes wishes me to live.”

  I slip my own hands inside my sleeves to keep them warm as a thought occurs to me. “Are you a bastard?” It would explain his earlier comments about his family.

  “No.” His face grows hard. “Not a bastard.”

  “And yet you joined the mercenaries rather than fight with your father’s men.” Another thought occurs to me. Did he suspect his father’s honor was in question, even then?

  He shrugs, but the movement is stiff and wooden. “By the time I was born, my father already had three sons to carry on his good name. A fourth was merely one more mouth to feed, one more youth to train and supply.” He grins, mostly to himself. “He wanted me to join the clergy. I refused.” That explains his deep faith in the Nine. “Since he would not teach me the art of soldiering, I ran off to join the ranks of mercenaries.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve.”

  The same age I was when I was sent to the French court. “Why so eager to fight?”

  He looks puzzled by the question. “Because I am good at it. With three older brothers steeped in the arts of soldiering and warfare, I presented a useful target. By the time I was twelve, I had acquired most of their knowledge, along with a burning desire to learn what they could not teach me so I could use it against them.”

  Before I can even smile at his confession—​it is so like my own thinking—​his face shifts again, growing somber as he falls silent. That is when I remember that all his brothers are dead.

  He stares unseeing at the road ahead of us for a long moment before speaking again. “Does Angoulême know you are an assassin?”

  My relief at seeing the shadows disappear from his face is replaced by annoyance. I would be happiest if I never had to think of Count Angoulême again. “You should conserve your strength for the long walk ahead.”

  “I told you, I will keep up. Why are you evading the question?”

  “No,” I lie. “Angoulême does not know I am an initiate of Mortain.” He has coaxed too many answers out of me already. “I am simply a ward, entrusted to his care.”

  “Will he come looking for you?”

  “He would if he knew I was gone, but he will be at Blois until Epiphany.”

  Maraud frowns. “Surely someone will notice you are missing.”

  Rutting figs, he is persistent. “No. I . . . made arrangements.”

  He stops walking so suddenly that one of the young boys trailing behind bumps into him, squealing in delighted terror. “What sort of arrangements?”

  I bring my arms closer to my body, wishing for a thicker coat. “It’s no concern of yours.”

  “I beg to differ. If they come looking for you, they will find me.”

  I squint into the distance and study the nearby fields. “I faked my own death.”

  His regard feels heavy against my skin. “Will that not cause them heartache?”

  I think of Louise and Juliette. Of Count Angoulême and the babe who is not mine. “No more than your disappearance caused your family.”

  It is unkind and not even true—​his father betrayed Brittany in an attempt to rescue him—​but it has its desired effect, and he falls silent. He shifts his gaze to the north, toward the faint roar of the Charente River in the distance.

  “So you never had a sister?”

  The question catches me like a kick to the gut. It not only knocks the air from my lungs, but rips off a scab that has only just begun to form. I use every ounce of will I possess to resurrect the thick walls around my heart. “My sister is—​was—​real.”

  Something warm brushes my shoulder, bringing an unfamiliar sense of comfort. I look down to see Maraud’s hand. He gives a brief squeeze of compassion before removing it. I do not know what surprises me more—​his touch or that the sense of comfort remains long after his hand is gone.

   Chapter 58

  Sybella

  y sisters’ presence seems to cheer the queen somewhat, reminding her of her own sweet Isabeau. She is in desperate need of good cheer right now, for the king has not visited her since their disastrous walk in the garden. It casts a pall over the winter revelry. Even the king appears out of sorts.

  In truth, it is only the regent who seems merry. I do not know if the king told her of what transpired in the garden, or if she simpl
y sees there has been a breach between them and that is enough for her.

  As we draw near the week mark with no visit from the king, my unease grows. Will he ever return? Is he seeking comfort elsewhere? With the Princess Marguerite? How easy to seek comfort in the company of someone who has been raised to be his wife since she was three and trained to reflect his own glory back at him. She would never dare to place demands or ask to govern a duchy. She would never dare to be a person separate from him or his be-damned crown.

  All of these questions give more urgency to my search for the convent’s moles. Since it is Advent and the rest of the castle is caught up in the celebration of the Christmas season, I am able to de precisely that.

  The most reliable factor I have to go on is age. However, most of the regent’s ladies in waiting have small, shriveled souls, so it is hard guess how old they are. Especially since they do not take kindly to the queen’s attendants trying to infiltrate their ranks, or even chatting with them in a friendly manner. While I do not adopt a friendly manner often, when I do, it nearly always manages to charm. That these stick-faced women are impervious to it just adds to my conviction that the regent has stolen their hearts and holds them locked away in stone jars.

  But today, one of the women has been sent by the regent to deliver a message to the steward, and I have decided to follow.

  Martine is a compact woman with a thin face and deep brown eyes. While her hair is brown, it does have glints of red when the light hits it. She is somewhere between sixteen and nineteen, with an aloof manner and keeps herself somewhat apart from the others. While it could simply be her nature, it could also be the reticence of someone who does not feel she can let down her guard.

  If she is going to the steward’s office, she will pass through this same hallway on her way back. My plan is to place a crow feather someplace where she will see it and observe how she reacts. If she is looking for one—​her reaction will tell me much. If she has no knowledge of the convent, she likely will not even notice it.

  There is no way to guarantee she will see it but to leave it on the floor so that it is directly in her path. Provided no servant wanders by and removes it before then.

  Fortunately, there is an alcove further down the hallway. If I press myself into it, suck in my stomach, and do not move, I will not be visible.

  Luckily for me, Martine is an efficient woman and does not take long with her errand. The rapid clack of her footsteps alerts me to her return. Then an abrupt silence. Has she spotted the feather?

  The silence is followed by a huff of irritation accompanied by more hurried steps leading back the way she came. Unable to help myself, I peer around the lip of the alcove in time to see her yank on a rope to summon a servant. I pull back into my alcove. Did she not see it after all?

  Moments later a young maid hurries from the far end of the hall toward Martine. Her voice is slightly breathless, eager to please. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Are you in charge of seeing to this part of the castle?”

  “Not personally, my lady, but—”

  “Find whoever is responsible.”

  “But of course, my lady. Should I request they bring anything in particular to be of service?”

  “Can you not see what is before your own face? Look!”

  There is a long moment of silence. “Look at what, my lady?” the maid finally asks.

  “That . . . filthy, dirty feather right here where the regent or the king himself could see it. The regent will not tolerate such slovenliness in her household, and I want to know who is responsible so that they may be held to account.”

  Cursing Martine for being a shrew—​the regent’s household!—​I step out of the alcove and walk briskly toward them as if I have just come from the solar. I put my hands to my cheeks. “Oh, dear! There it is.”

  Both women look at me as if the feather could only have come from my brain.

  “This is yours?” Martine finally asks. Her brow is creased, making her eyes smaller and meaner.

  “Not exactly.” I give an apologetic smile. “I found it outside and meant to give it to my youngest sister, who likes to collect them. It must have fallen from my pocket.” I bend over, scoop up the feather, and hold it out like a prize. “Thank you so much for finding it. I know it will delight her.” And with that, I hurry back down the hall.

  Merde. That did not go at all how I had hoped.

   Chapter 59

  Genevieve

  y the time we reach Jarnac late that afternoon, our group has grown. Much as rivulets run together turning into little streams, which in turn come together to form small rivers, so too have the villagers from Cognac, volunteers from nearby chateaux, and stray travelers joined with the mummers until we are a sea of performers. The people of Jarnac have eagerly awaited our arrival, and the guild hall in the center of town has been set aside for our use.

  The hall is large, and I head for a secluded corner in the far back. No one has given me any additional notice, but it is wise not to push my luck. I select a quiet corner, pull my pack out from under my breastplate, drop it to the floor, and lie down next to it, my legs grateful for the rest. A moment later there is a whomp and a thud as Maraud does the same.

  “Why are you tired?” I ask without looking at him. “You haven’t had to walk since before noon.” When Herbin’s wagon got stuck in a rut on the road, Maraud was one of the first to lend a hand. He was offered a ride in the cart by way of thanks.

  “There was room for you if you had asked.” My eyes are closed, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

  “I did not need to be carted in a wagon.”

  “You have not been confined to a cell the size of a large tankard, with no exercise for nearly a year.”

  “Your offer of help was very well timed.”

  When he says nothing, I open my eyes. His gaze rests on me with a faint air of disappointment. Guilt pokes at my gut. I adjust the hood of my cloak to better cushion my head. “Even so, it worked out well. You could not have walked the entire way. Although,” I amend, “you have done far better than most would have.”

  He grimaces good-humoredly. “Do not be too impressed. I am now ready for a nap.”

  Within moments, he is breathing deeply, asleep already. I marvel at how easily he shrugs off both insults and embarrassment. In my experience, either one is enough for men to puff up like a peacock or draw into a wounded silence. But not Maraud. He is as resilient as a piece of gristle.

  It would be so much easier if he would puff up or lash out in anger. He would not be so likable then. And I cannot afford to like him. No more than a farmwife can like the goose she is fattening up for her dinner.

  I roll over on my side, trying to get comfortable. Even though I have just walked miles, my limbs still twitch with the need to move, to run, to exercise my newfound freedom.

  To forget the pain of Margot’s death, the comfort of Maraud’s touch, and the vague sense of emptiness that lingers even though I have discovered my destiny. I give a grunt of frustration and sit up. Maraud is still asleep, but there are scores of people—​colorful, warm, easy people—​with which to distract myself.

  Thus resolved, I go in search of the men who are passing around the wine jug.

  * * *

  An hour later, Maraud finds me sitting with a group of mummers near the front of the hall. “Ah! Here is the wolf now!” Herbin, the wagon driver, pours a cup of wine, hands it to Maraud, and lifts his own in salute. “Thanks for you help today. You know your way around an axle.”

  Maraud shrugs at compliment but takes the offered refreshment. “Drink up,” Jacquette urges. “It was a long day and will be an even longer night.”

  As Maraud folds himself down onto the floor among us, Jacquette leans forward, a speculative gleam in her eye. “So, do you work at the same tavern Lucinda does?”

  Maraud slips into the lie I have told as easily as a fish into water. “No, but I visit often.”

  This elicits a r
ound of laughter and a refill of his glass. One would never guess he was from one of the noblest families in Brittany. His years with the mercenaries have rubbed away some of his polish.

  A man from Jarnac appears bearing hot, fat sausages on sticks. He hands one to Maraud and Jacques. “Eat up. We begin shortly.”

  When he tries to hand one to me, I nod my head toward Maraud. “Give it to him. I had two already.” It is a lie, but the wine has filled my stomach. And besides, Maraud has much catching up to do as far as meals go.

  As he eats, I introduce him to my new friends. “This is Denic, a weaver of wool here in Jarnac. And this is Jarnac’s village priest, Father Innocent. Although,” I say in a loud whisper, “with his wandering eyes and sneaky fingers, he is anything but.”

  Father Innocent blushes, looking abashed as the others laugh. I smile to soften the barb in my words. I do not begrudge him his pleasures, simply the sneaking of them. “And this is Marie, whose husband’s fine wine we are drinking. Herbin and Rogier you already know from this morning.”

  Maraud nods at each of them, lifting his cup in acknowledgment. In order to maintain the pretense I told the others—​that Maraud and I are “friends” from a tavern in Norvaigne, I lean against Maraud’s arm. “Denic will be dressed as the king tonight, and Father Innocent will be performing as the Green Maid.”

  Maraud lifts his cup to Father Innocent. “A lovelier Green Maid I cannot imagine.”

  As the men laugh at his joke, I wonder briefly if my act of being nobly born is ever discovered, can I plead it was naught but a Twelfth Night frolic gone on too long? It is the one time of year when the world turns upside down and peasants may dress as kings and kings play beggars and fools.

  And here I sit, a peasant pretending to be a noble pretending to be a peasant. It is absurd enough that my laughter joins with that of the others.