by Tarah Scott
Liselle swallowed.
She knew very well there was only one reason the Saluzzi would insist upon having one of their own stay with her brother until her message had been received. If she failed to send the pigeon by sunset, the Saluzzi would force her family to slay her. And if they refused, the truce would be broken, and the war would begin again. Orazio would be the first to die.
Orazio read the fear in her eyes, and a sympathetic expression crossed his face. Giving her shoulder an encouraging clasp, he urged, “I have faith in you. Stay strong and wary, cara. You can do this and do it well in the manner befitting a di Franco.”
Liselle bowed her head. And even as a despair stronger than she’d ever known to be possible washed over her, she whispered, “May I prove worthy of the honor.”
“You have not disappointed me, sorèlina cara,” Orazio said, more to himself than to anyone else. “You will honor our family.”
A month ago those words would have made her heart soar. Now they felt like leaden weights. Never before had she lied to her brother. Every word she had spoken had been false. Blood and loyalty? Òsti! There was no solution to this! How could she spill Julian’s blood? But if she did not, could she see her own brother and cousin die?
“Then send us word when the deed is done,” Orazio repeated crisply, indicating the caged pigeons again with a curt nod.
“Yes, Orazio,” she murmured woodenly.
“Then I must be gone,” her brother said with one last encouraging smile.
Discipline allowed her to compose her features and escort him to the door. But upon the threshold, Orazio paused, sending Pascal a questioning brow.
“Allow me to tarry a moment,” Pascal answered the unspoken question.
Orazio hesitated, but then with a nod, spun on his heel and quitted the chamber.
As his footsteps faded away, Liselle’s veins turned into rivers of ice. But she could not panic yet. She still had Pascal in the room, watching her every minute expression.
“Diàmbarne!” he swore, striking the wall with his fist. “Why does Orazio insist on dancing to whatever music the Saluzzi play?”
Liselle bit her lip, unable to trust her voice to form a reply.
And then Pascal’s voice cut through the chamber. “You find this order … distasteful?”
Composing her face, Liselle turned to meet his sharp gaze. In a firm tone, she replied as he would have expected. “I belong to the Vindictam first.”
He didn’t believe her. That much was clear. “Then I will observe with interest what harm you can do,” he drawled with a mocking smile. “Particularly to the one you love.”
Love.
The word was a powerful one, and suddenly she couldn’t trust herself to speak. Ducking her head, she smoothed her skirts and fought to control her emotions.
But if Pascal noticed her discomposure, he didn’t show it.
Moving to the window, he peered out of the shutters and shook his head in disgust. “And I thought England to be a land forlorn of refinement, Scotland is even more barbaric. I fail to see how Nicoletta survived here for so long. ‘Tis no small wonder she took ill rather than return to this purgatory!”
As his litany of complaints continued, Liselle closed her eyes, grateful for a moment to regain even a shred of control.
“I grow exceedingly weary of this place. The sun never tarries for long, but at least they do not even attempt to make wine here,” Pascal commented as he abandoned the window to lounge against the door once again. And then peering down at her through half-shuttered eyes, he warned suddenly, “Have a care with Lord Gray. I’d wager the man is not what he seems, bábia. I would fain prefer to keep my blade clean of your blood this night.”
Liselle swallowed. Lord Gray certainly was much more. And not because he was Le Marin, but because she loved him. She closed her eyes as the magnitude of her situation truly began to take hold of her.
And then Pascal’s hand snaked out to grab her forearm tightly, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Can you do this?”
Liselle gave a bitter laugh that rang hollow. “I was born for this. How can I not?” It was a lie, but how could she say anything else?
“Walk away,” he ordered with a dark look.
Startled, her eyes went wide. “What are you saying? I cannot run. I am being watched, and I have received the tongue! Orazio himself would hunt me!” O ciélo, but was there a way out of this?
“I would see that you were not hunted,” Pascal vowed, his dark eyes blazing passionately.
Liselle wrenched her arm free. “And who are you?” Her voice was unsteady. “Why speak such drivel? You cannot change the laws of the Vindictam!”
He gave a rich laugh before whispering under his breath, “No. Not yet.”
“Yet?” She laughed herself, but there was no mirth in it. “Even with your strange connections, Pascal, you have no real power here. No one can stop this save the Dominus Granditer.” She swallowed, catching her shaking breath.
Pascal drew his lips into a thin line as he clamped both hands upon her shoulders. “Then outwit them all, bábia. Do not disappoint me! Ever have you excelled in games of treachery! Your presence of mind and skills are unparalleled. Outwit them all!”
Again, Liselle glanced up at her cousin, surprised at his genuine tone of concern. Pascal was only growing more complicated and mysterious each day. And he hadn’t betrayed her to Orazio. But did that mean he was an ally, or was it merely that his hatred of the Saluzzi was so strong that he cared for nothing else?
“Or,” Pascal continued, his voice dropping into a familiar belittling pattern. “Or you can do what you are most likely to do, bábia. You can pretend you cannot find the man and pray that he stays away.”
And with that parting barb, he opened the door and was gone.
Liselle wasn’t certain how long she stared at the empty passageway before the cooing of the pigeons gradually broke through her thoughts. Closing the chamber door, she returned to stand in the center of her room.
She would not kill Lord Gray. Her heart would not allow that. Nor would it allow her to betray Orazio.
“Why does heaven hate me so?” Liselle heard her own voice gasp. It sounded thin and far away, as if it belonged to someone else.
She stood there a moment as a wave of panic threatened to consume her, but she closed her eyes and steeled her resolve. She could not waver now. To waver now would be to lose.
But what could she do?
No matter which path she took, it could only end in death.
She left her chamber in a daze. Somehow, she had stumbled her way down from the castle and onto Edinburgh’s streets, and was only dimly aware of the afternoon sun beating down upon her face.
Numbly, she wove through the crowds.
A fanfare of trumpets sounded from the castle above, and as the last notes died away, she was dimly aware of the mighty gates creaking open and a company of horsemen riding forth led by Albany and King James himself.
And as the Royal Stewarts approached, the crowd of shopkeepers and bystanders thronged around her, craning their necks as they jostled and bumped elbows, striving for a better view.
As if in a dream, she watched the parade of royals.
Albany rode at James’ side, his head held high and his lips curved upwards in a smile, but his green eyes glittered in anger. And then the Royal Stewarts had passed, proceeding down the Royal Mile to enter Holyroodhouse as the bronze bell sounded from the church tower.
17
the bone-handled stiletto
There was no denying it. She had failed. The words rang in her head, over and over. She could think of nothing else.
And then Liselle found herself standing in her chamber once more, having no recollection of how she had gotten there. The window was open, and the rays of the afternoon sun made sharp shadows on the wall. Behind her, she could hear the cooing of the pigeons.
Woodenly, she smoothed her skirt and tucked her stray curls beneath her
bejeweled hairnet. There was no hope. She felt it like a fist in her belly. She would truly die this night.
With her hands involuntarily clenching, she moved to stare down at the gray birds in the cage.
Mayhap it was not too late to give the Saluzzo his chance at revenge.
The sun had not yet set.
Yes, she would die, but not at the hand of her brother. She would spare him that pain, at least. And she would do her best to protect his life should he refuse to slay her.
With a numb sense of resignation, she took a sheet of parchment from her writing desk, and tearing off a narrow strip, dipped her quill in the ink and wrote the words of defeat:
Saluzzo, I give you my blood for his. I await my fate at the feast.
Sprinkling sand over the wet ink, she read the message several times, feeling nothing. And then reaching into the cage, selected one of the birds and carefully tied the message to its leg.
Orazio had said the Saluzzi would be waiting with him for her pigeon at the salt merchants. It would not be the message they expected, but she knew it was her only choice.
Cradling the pigeon’s softness against her cheek, she moved to the window and opened her hands.
The bird bounded away, ascending to fly in lazy circles in the sky before suddenly turning east to swoop over the city and disappear amongst the rooftops.
She didn’t know how long she had stood there until she was shaken from her reverie by the church bells tolling in the distance. And then there were shouts at the castle gates, and Albany and James reappeared with great fanfare, apparently finished with their parade of unity.
The feast would start soon.
She did not know how quickly the Saluzzo would arrive, but the salt merchants were not far away.
With a heavy sigh, Liselle closed her eyes.
Her fate was sealed. By now, her message had been read.
It was done.
A ripple of anger washed over her. The Saluzzi were despicable. She could understand Pascal’s hatred of them now.
And Nicoletta. Tears threatened when she thought of her sister. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the tears away. Nicoletta had been so worried for her. And as usual, Nicoletta had been right.
Returning to her desk, she dipped her quill in the inkpot once more to write her sister a letter of farewell, but she had only succeeded in writing Nicoletta’s name upon a fresh sheet of parchment before tears blinded her eyes, and she could not write more.
Instead, she unsheathed her bone-handled stiletto and placed it on top of the page.
Her sister would understand.
Gathering her courage, she stood, preparing to leave for the feast when a hand caught her elbow and spun her around.
“’Twas ye in Fotheringhay, lass,” Julian’s soft burr whispered, but his gray eyes were riveted upon the stiletto on the desk.
Strangely, she felt nothing upon seeing him. Not even surprise as she observed the irony. Yes, she had saved his life in Fotheringhay, but it had only brought about the current events which demanded that she take his life now.
“Santo Ciélo! What curse is this?” she whispered.
Julian’s fingers gripped her shoulders hard to give her a little shake. “Tell me what this is about, lass! Sweet Mary! Dinna hide this from me! Let me help ye!”
But Liselle cold only stare at him, feeling nothing more than a cold detachment.
Through the window, she could hear the wailing of the pipes announcing the feast. She could not risk being late. This was her last chance to save Julian.
Slowly, she lifted her hand to cup his cheek and whispered, “Dream of me.” Yes, she could die this night if she knew she would live forever in his heart.
And then twisting free from his grasp, she picked up her skirts and ran, ignoring his calls for her to stay. She was no coward. She would face her fate with her chin held high.
Quickly, she made her way to the castle hall.
Pausing on the threshold, she searched for any sign of the Saluzzi, but the great hall was crowded, and the light was dim. The place was bedecked for a sumptuous feast, a feast to celebrate the renewed peace between James and his brother, Albany. Fine linen graced the tables, and the enticing fragrance of fresh bread mingled with the scent of cloves and oranges. Musicians played their lutes.
But still, she saw no sign of the Saluzzi or the Vindictam.
And then trumpets sounded, announcing the arrival of the king and his royal brother, and Liselle quickly found a seat.
As if in a dream, she watched the Royal Stewarts parade in their regal trappings through the hall.
This was her last feast.
With a removed interest, she noted the king’s satin doublet was trimmed with a lace collar in the fashion of the French, and that the man appeared pale and sad.
From the corner of her eye, she thought she spied a black-cloaked figure, but when she whirled there was no one there.
Frowning, she turned back as the king passed by her less than an arm’s length away. She could smell the distinct odor of whiskey.
Spirits.
Her eyes strayed over the table and lit upon a bottle of wine.
She didn’t hesitate.
Grabbing the bottle, she filled her goblet and drained the contents in a single draught as Cameron and a number of Scottish lords arrived to take their places at the king’s high table.
Pouring more wine, Liselle sipped slowly as she scanned the faces in the hall.
And then King James rose from his canopied chair and called for Albany.
The announcement was almost too garbled to understand. Apparently, Albany had received the titles of both Mar and Garioch. But the king had scarcely said the words before he succumbed to a bout of hysterical weeping, clutching his chest and calling out the name of Thomas.
And then as Cameron drew the king away to escort him back to his apartments, Albany gladly stepped up to command that the feast should begin.
She had swallowed the last of her second goblet of wine when a man clothed in a black cloak appeared by one of the arched windows. Liselle’s stomach lurched, but he only proved to be some Scottish lord with bright red hair and his arm in a sling.
Taking a deep breath, she poured another goblet of wine.
Òsti! Why did they make her wait? Was it for the enjoyment of the Saluzzo who sought her blood?
She closed her eyes and for a moment, let her heart ache for the simplicity of her life before, of gliding in gondolas through the narrow canals of Venice and drowsing in the sun to the lull of the gentle waters. She had watched the latest plays, dined on fresh figs, and perched on the clay-tiled rooftops at night with her feet bare, dreaming of the day she would venture forth as an assassin.
Her future had seemed so romantic then. Before she understood what it really meant to be an assassin.
But it was too late now.
Reaching for wine, she had half swallowed it when Julian’s light-hearted laugh rang a short distance away.
The sound was like a knife through her heart.
She couldn’t bear to look at him, yet she could not stop from glancing over her shoulder to watch him approach, impeccably clad in the white shirt and plaid that he seemed to favor.
She loved him.
She had for quite some time. There was no point in denying it now.
Seizing her goblet, she drained the rest of the sweet, heady wine only to desperately refill it yet again. Wine would numb the pain. Already, she felt its warmth coursing through her veins. She had just touched the goblet to her lips when Julian slid into the seat by her side.
“Mayhap ye should eat a little with all that wine, aye?” he asked with a playful grin as he tossed her an orange.
She watched it bounce and roll off the table.
Julian’s brows knit in concern as his gaze grew hard. “Is your honor in need of avenging, lass?” His voice was soft and gentle but held a dangerous undertone.
The thought was preposterous. She was h
ardly helpless. She opened her mouth to retort, but hiccupped instead.
“Santo Ciélo!” she finally managed to say. “I would gut the man that tried! Yes! I would welcome it!” Especially this night. She slammed her fist on the table in emphasis even as she frowned a little at herself for her unusual response.
Mayhap it was the effects of the wine.
At her side, Julian chuckled and his cheek creased into a grin.
But then, a group of musicians arrived, followed by jugglers and jesters, and it was simply too much effort to shout over the noise.
And then more pipes began to play, and she winced at the sudden pain ringing in her head.
What was taking Orazio and the Saluzzo so long? Surely, they had gotten the message? Had the Saluzzo refused her bargain?
The wine bottle was empty, she reached for another, but Julian caught her wrist.
“Ho, lass!” He looked outright worried. “Ye’ve had a wee bit too much, aye?”
“No,” she snapped with a glare, and slapping his hand aside, reached for the bottle anyway. At the moment, becoming drunken out of her wits was far more preferable to anything else she could think to do. It would make the entire thing easier for everyone involved.
It was difficult to refill her goblet, most of the wine splashed out, but she swallowed what remained in one huge gulp.
Julian waited until she had finished and then offered her a bit of roasted fowl on the tip of his dagger.
She scowled at him and turned her head away, feeling dizzy.
After some time, the performers went away, and the servants arrived with another course.
“Are ye feeling better now?” Julian’s soft burr rumbled in her ear.
Liselle winced. His voice seemed unnaturally loud. Reaching for her goblet, she stretched her hand for the bottle of wine, but it danced away from her grasp.
“Hold still!” she snapped at it peevishly.
“Ach, ‘tis enough wine, ye wee minx,” Julian announced, reaching for the bottle himself.
“Leave me be!” Liselle bellowed.
