My heart lurches like a drunken man, beating more erratically. Gut wounds are a long, ugly way to die.
The third man is upon Maraud, holding his enormous broadsword in a two-handed grip. Distressed by the smell of blood, the horses neigh and pull on the reins. Swearing, I drag them toward the nearest post.
When I look over my shoulder, the third man is down, but a fourth comes at Maraud, swinging a mace.
Maraud grins maniacally. Just as the man swings, he crouches low. While the mace is still mid-arc, Maraud thrusts his sword high, trapping the chain. It whips once, twice around the blade, then Maraud yanks it out of the other man’s hand. As his attacker reaches for his own sword, Maraud draws the second one from his hip and runs him through with it.
My chest feels as if it will explode as it is filled with yet another heartbeat, and my fingers work frantically to secure the reins tightly enough that the panicking horses cannot bolt.
The fifth man is upon him now, this one bearing a battle-ax. Maraud grabs both the blade and the hilt of his sword, using it to block the bone-jarring blow. A blade cannot hold long against such force. I jerk on the reins with all my strength to assure the knot cannot be pulled loose.
A sixth man appears—where are they coming from?—walking purposefully toward Maraud, a sword in each hand. Maraud’s back is to him, but even if he could see, he has his hands full keeping his current opponent from splitting his skull.
I snatch my dagger from my left sleeve. It has been months since I have practiced so I do not let myself think, but simply throw and trust that years of training will hold true.
The dagger whips through the air and catches the sixth man on the side of his head. He ducks and swears, dropping one of his swords as his hand comes up to stanch the gush of blood.
There is a long single moment when everyone—Maraud, his attacker, and the man now missing his ear—is surprised, and immobile with it.
Maraud recovers first. He grabs his hilt with both hands and drives it into the faint hollow just above his attacker’s collarbone.
The man drops his ax and falls to his knees, the movement releasing the sword from its bloody scabbard. Maraud spins around to face the one-eared man and finishes him off with a quick, clean thrust between his ribs.
Surely my heart was never meant to beat with the rhythm of so many dying men. It feels as if an entire herd of galloping horses is trapped inside my chest. With Maraud’s gasping and the thundering heartbeats, it takes a moment to register the sound of clapping behind us.
I whirl around to find Pierre d’Albret leaning in the doorway, applauding.
Maraud wipes his brow, leaving a bloody smear. “Why?”
Pierre shrugs. “I needed to see if you’d lost your edge. You haven’t. When you are finished here”—he glances at me—“find me. Do not make me come looking for you.”
With that, he and his remaining guards disappear back into the stable, leaving Maraud and me surrounded by the groans of his dying men as we try to catch our breath.
“It was an ambush?”
Maraud nods. “With that particular snake, you must always check for two heads.”
“Is he truly allowing us to leave,” I ask, “or merely waiting to stab us in the back?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
* * *
Once we clear the sally port, I can no longer feel the heartbeats of the dying men. Have they passed from this life into the next, or am I simply out of range? Just one of a dozen questions I have.
We ride in silence, grateful to be free of the city and eager to put as much distance as possible between us and d’Albret. As we gallop down the hill toward the valley below, we startle a flock of crows from the branch where they’ve been sleeping. As one, they spread their black wings and rise up into the night sky. It is not a crow feather, but an entire flock of them. Surely it is a sign that the Nine smile on this venture.
As disastrous as our escape was, it did not cost us too much time. “How long a ride is it to Tours?” I ask.
“I thought you said we were going to Poitiers?”
“I lied.”
“Of course you did,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Five days’ hard ride—with luck and the weather on our side.”
“Very well.” I put my heels to Gallopine’s flanks and send her cantering down the road.
There is barely enough moonlight to see by, but the road is straight, and our mounts are fresh. Besides, it is Christmas night, so we have it to ourselves.
Twice, Maraud steers us off the road to wait among the trees. I say nothing the first time, but by the second time, my desire to keep moving makes it impossible to hold my tongue. “This is costing us too much time.”
“And I wish to get there alive.”
“You said d’Albret was headed to Périgord. You think he will follow us instead?”
He reaches down and gives Mogge an absentminded rub. “If it suits him.”
“Why does he want you to join him so badly?” If the animosity between them were not so thick, I would worry they were involved in some plot.
“I don’t know. But if d’Albret is involved, I want no part of it.”
Gallopine paws impatiently at the forest floor beneath her hooves. I allow her to inch forward, hoping Maraud will take the hint. “He insisted it would be of personal interest to you.”
“He was wrong.”
I almost ask if it could be about his father, but do not have the stomach for breaking that news to him. Not when he has finally gained a measure of freedom. There will be time enough for him to learn that ugly truth.
“What of Angoulême?” he asks as Mogge draws alongside me. “Will he follow you?”
“Not with the news about his babe.”
Maraud’s gaze is piercing. “Was it true?”
There is no one on the road behind us, so I allow Gallopine back onto it. “It was necessary. He needed a pressing reason not to follow me. Now he will hurry to check on his wife and unborn child instead. Why so concerned about Angoulême’s babe? He was letting you rot in an oubliette.”
“I’m not concerned about the babe. I’m trying to ascertain the extent of your ruthlessness.”
Chapter 67
Sybella
hen I reach the servants’ chapel, Beast is already there. “What happened?” His voice is rough. Others might think it anger, but I know it is fear that has been gnawing at him since we returned.
“There was an assassin.”
His brow furrows, as if he cannot quite fathom what I am saying. “On the hunt today?”
I nod. “Waiting for me in the woods.”
He takes me by the arm, the solid warmth of his grip grounding me, and pulls me deep into the chapel so that we are standing in the corner farthest from the door. “How do you know he was there for you?”
“Because . . .” I didn’t, I realize. “I didn’t know he was there for me until I had killed him.” You are a d’Albret. You lie like one. You kill like one. Pierre’s words echo inside my head, as sharp and clear as a bell. Those words keep me from looking into Beast’s face. From taking comfort in the familiar lump of his nose and the scar across his cheek. I am unable to meet his eyes. I fear if I look at him, he will see the truth of Pierre’s words. He will understand just how easily I kill. I square my shoulders. “Not until he was dead and his soul was laid open to me.” My voice is steady, but colored by the bleakness I feel. “There was no god guiding me in this,” I whisper. “Only instinct. He did not strike first. I did.”
Beast puts his hands on my shoulders. “You do not know that there are no gods guiding your hand in this. You only know that you did not see Mortain’s marque.”
I start to ask him what he means, but he talks over me. “We have had this discussion, you and I. I cannot fathom why the god of death would not grace you with killing to protect the innocent. Perhaps there is no innocence or guilt when death is concerned. But other gods, other saints, do sanc
tion killing to protect innocents. Saint Arduinna, Saint Camulos. And make no mistake. Not only is this war, but you and your sisters are innocent in this.”
I snort. “I was never innocent.”
Beast shakes me—gently, but a shake nevertheless. “Don’t say that,” he growls. It is the closest I have ever seen him to being angry with me. “You are a survivor who has done precisely what she needs to in order to survive. You are not even close to what your brothers or father are, any more than Charlotte or Louise is.”
Even though I don’t think he is right, I allow myself to believe his words, just for a moment—much as one might step briefly into a church to snatch a passing moment of grace. “This is a war, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Someone was sent to kill you. How could you tell he was an assassin?”
I explain the trap that he’d laid with the dead deer, his dress, his manner. “But mostly,” I say, “it was simply instinct.” The same inner voice that told me what to do with the dying guard. “Once he was dead, I saw that he was told to look for me. Given my description.”
Beast grips my shoulders tighter. “By who?”
I look up and meet his eyes. “I do not know. The hand that held out the bag of coins was wearing a leather glove. I could not tell if it was a man’s or woman’s or if it had a fresh scar across the back of it as Pierre’s would have. But,” I say slowly, “the glove was similar to the one I saw handing money to one of the mercenaries.”
Beast’s face is almost comically blank. “What mercenaries?”
“After the ambush, as the field was awash in souls, I caught a glimpse of the d’Albret coat of arms.”
“And you did not tell me.” He does not raise his voice, but suddenly the room feels much smaller, as if he has somehow grown to take up all the space.
“It was one of the many things I have been meaning to tell you—when next we had the time.” I lift my chin. “Besides, it was one soul among dozens. I had no way of knowing who it belonged to or how long ago he had seen such things. And we had more pressing things to deal with, such as our own dead and wounded.”
He stares at me a long, taut moment. “Is there anything else you’ve neglected to tell me?”
I cast my mind back, trying to remember.
“You must think about it?” His whisper feels like he is bellowing.
“I wish to give you an honest answer!”
He shoves his hands onto his head and walks three paces away. “So you think Pierre sent the assassin?” His voice is calmer now.
“Or the regent. By now she has as much reason to hate me as he does. And,” I point out, “she picked a most interesting day to suddenly be absent from the palace.”
I watch as the implications of that spread across Beast’s face. “I can’t believe . . .”
I take a step toward him. “You can’t believe what? That she is that ruthless? That she will kill to advance her hand? Tell me.” I tilt my head. “Have you heard anything about Crunard’s son yet?”
He winces as the point of my arrow finds its home. “No.” His voice contains the acknowledgment that I am right.
“But what if it hadn’t been your hawk to wander afield?” he asks. “It could have been anyone’s falcon who did that.”
I shrug. “Mayhap he would simply have stayed hidden until I showed myself. He likely had a number of plans on how to gain access to me. We saw only the one that worked.”
He sighs. “What of the body?”
When I explain, Beast’s mouth quirks up and his eyes shine with admiration. “I admire a lady who can think on her feet.”
I shake my head. “Be serious.”
“I am. What of the horse?”
“If there was one, I never saw it. He must have left it behind somewhere.”
Beast nods. “I will send Lazare to check.” He is quiet a moment. “My biggest worry is how long will it take whoever sent this man to realize he has failed?”
“My bigger worry is that if Pierre thinks I am out of the way, he will feel free to make another attempt on the girls.”
“Then he will be most surprised, won’t he, when he faces not just you, but the rest of us protecting them as well. When do you think the queen will be able to ask for the king’s protection on your behalf?”
“Not until she is assured of her own,” I tell him glumly.
Chapter 68
Genevieve
e reach Ransle just as the heavy gray clouds above us open up and release the rain they have been threatening all day. We stop at the first inn we pass, a plaster and timber building with an arched gate between it and the road.
Grateful for shelter, I step across the threshold, the rain dripping off my cloak onto the wooden floorboards. Maraud is close on my heels. The low-beamed room is lit by the fire and filled with the smell of tallow candles mixed with old wine and cooking. There are trestle tables set up, but only a handful of travelers.
“You’ll be wanting a meal and a bed?” the innkeeper asks. “And stabling for your horses.” I can see him adding up the sum in his head.
“That’s right.”
“Can you pay?”
In answer, I pat the small purse at my belt.
With a shrewd eye, he judges it full enough to bear the costs and motions us to one of the three empty tables. He hollers over his shoulder to some unfortunate lad to come see to the horses.
We have barely shaken the rain from our cloaks and taken a seat before the innkeeper returns with a platter of food, a wine jug, and two cups. My mouth waters as Maraud reaches for the knife and divides the braised coney in half, placing one portion on my trencher and the other on his. Following his lead, I rip the loaf of coarse brown bread in two and hand one of the sections to him, then turn to our meal. The rabbit is a little tough, but the sauce is flavorful and the bread is warm.
The quiet talk of the inn’s other patrons is interrupted by a rap on the door. Maraud sets his food down and slides his hand under the table toward his sword. I shoot him a questioning look, but he simply shrugs. Whatever he knows about d’Albret must be truly vile to keep him on edge.
Blissfully unaware of Maraud’s concerns, the innkeep hoists himself to see to the door. Raised voices follow. My pulse quickens as I worry Maraud was right—d’Albret has followed us—but realize the voices are too good-natured for that. “Let us in, old man!”
The innkeep grumbles something about mercenaries always taking and never paying.
“Yes, we’ll pay! In advance.”
“Besides,” a deeper voice says, “if you do not let us in we will drown, and our deaths will stain your eternal soul and you shall have to do penance.”
“Lots and lots of penance,” the first voice agrees.
“Very well, but you’ll have to leave your swords here.” A round of protest goes up. “Those are the rules for mercenaries. I’ll not have you slashing my place to ribbons when you’re done with it. Now hand them over or drown, it’s no difference to me.”
More grumbling is followed by a clatter as swords are removed and handed to the innkeep. I reach for the jug and pour myself some wine. “Good thing you’re not a mercenary, else you’d have had to remove yours as well.” We are dressed as messengers, my hair braided and tucked under my hood to alter my appearance somewhat.
“Good thing,” Maraud agrees dryly. When he glances at the newcomers, a look of stunned recognition appears on his face and he shoots me a rueful expression.
A voice hails him. “Maraud? Is that truly you?”
“Jaspar?” Maraud’s smile is warm. “What are you doing in this part of France?”
While I am glad these aren’t d’Albret’s men, mercenary acquaintances of Maraud’s could pose nearly as great a threat to my plans.
“Me? Me? You are the one we thought dead for over a year now.”
The four men—no, three men and a woman, I realize—reach our table. “Truly.” The man’s voice is somber. “We thought you died at Saint-Au
bin.” He has the dark skin of a Moor and is dressed in riding leathers, a leather jerkin with a surcoat of chain mail, and a pair of muddy riding gloves tucked into the belt at his waist.
“You should know it takes more than a blow to my thick skull to kill me. Come. Sit with us.” I kick him under the table, but it is too late.
The man, Jaspar, sits next to Maraud, his gaze flickering briefly to me. “It wasn’t the blow I was worried about, but the pike.”
Maraud grimaces. “That would have finished me off if I’d lain there and waited for it.”
My appetite shrivels as two of the men sit on either side of me. The woman takes the free spot next to Maraud. She bumps his shoulder with her own. “You are thin.”
He smiles at her. “And you are blunt.” It is plain that she has a hundred questions she wishes to ask him. “Valine,” he continues, “this is Lucinda. Lucinda, these three brutes are Jaspar, Andry, and Tassin.” Does he place special emphasis on my name? Would it mean something to them?
My nod is more wary than pleasant as I try not to feel crowded and outnumbered. It was foolish to allow myself to be caught in the middle. Tassin on my left is a stout fellow with short hair, a bushy beard, and thick brows. His nose has been broken multiple times. If they chose to overpower me, they would win.
Jaspar leans across the table. “Do not mind Tassin. He is not much of a talker.”
“No, we save all the talking for you,” Valine says dryly, motioning the innkeep for wine.
On my right, Andry is paying little attention to the rest of us, his eyes roaming restlessly over the room as his fingers rub two thin coins together. “I still don’t know why we’re wasting money on this.”
Valine stretches her legs out under the table. “Because we are not as miserly as you and did not wish to drown in our sleep.”
Maraud smiles and raises his cup. “I’ve missed you miscreants.” By the note of joy in his voice, these are not casual acquaintances, but friends. This is worse than I thought. If Maraud chooses to enlist their aid so he can escape, they could easily overpower me. I might possibly fend off Jaspar, and maybe Valine, but not Tassin or Andry, and certainly not Maraud. Not all at once.
Courting Darkness Page 36
