Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Dramatis Personae

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Author’s Note

Coming in Spring 2014

His Fair Assassin trilogy

About the Author

Copyright © 2013 by Robin LaFevers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, except in the case of historical figures and events, which are used fictitiously.

To my own patron saints:

Nancy Warner,

for patching me back together time and again

so I could leap once more into the fray;

Erin Murphy,

who sometimes saw this story more clearly than I did;

Kate O’Sullivan,

for her unwavering support and enthusiasm;

and Mary Hershey,

for creating a safe place

where we could have all the hard and scary conversations.

Dramatis Personae

LADY SYBELLA, handmaiden to Death

ISMAE RIENNE, handmaiden to Death

ANNITH, a novitiate of Mortain

ABBESS OF SAINT MORTAIN

ALAIN D’ALBRET, a Breton noble with extensive holdings in France

PIERRE D’ALBRET, his son

JULIAN D’ALBRET, his son

CHARLOTTE D’ALBRET, his ten-year-old daughter

LOUISE D’ALBRET, his seven-year-old daughter

BERTRAND DE LUR, captain of d’Albret’s guard

JAMETTE DE LUR, his daughter

TEPHANIE, lady in waiting to Lady Sybella

MADAME FRANÇOISE DINAN, the duchess’s former governess

JEAN RIEUX, marshal of Brittany and the duchess’s former tutor

TILDE, a maid

ODETTE, her younger sister

BARON JULLIERS, a Breton noble

BARON VIENNE, a Breton noble

BARON IVES MATHURIN, a Breton noble

BENEBIC DE WAROCH, the Beast of Waroch and a knight of the realm

YANNIC, the jailor

GUION, a Breton farmer

BETTE, his wife

JACQUES, their son

ANTON, their son

The Charbonnerie:

ERWAN, their leader

GRAELON, a charbonnerie man

LAZARE, a charbonnerie man

WINNOG, a charbonnerie youth

MALINA, a charbonnerie woman

The Breton Court and Nobility

ANNE, Duchess of Brittany, Countess of Nantes, Montfort, and Richmont

ISABEAU, her sister

DUKE FRANCIS II (Anne’s father, deceased)

GAVRIEL DUVAL, a Breton noble

JEAN DE CHALON, Prince of Orange

MICHAULT THABOR, commander of the Rennes city guard

CAPTAIN DUNOIS, captain of the Breton army

PHILLIPE MONTAUBAN, chancellor of Brittany

BISHOP OF RENNES

CHARLES VIII, king of France

ANNE DE BEAUJEU, regent of France

MAXIMILIAN OF AUSTRIA, the Holy Roman emperor, one of Anne’s suitors

SIR DE BROSSE, man-at-arms

SIR LORRIL, man-at-arms

SIR LANNION, man-at-arms

SIR GAULTIER, man-at-arms

ABBESS OF ST. MER

SAMSON, a blacksmith’s son

CLAUDE, a woodcutter’s son

Chapter One

N

ANTES

, B

RITTANY

, 1489

I DID NOT ARRIVE AT the convent of Saint Mortain some green stripling. By the time I was sent there, my death count numbered three, and I had had two lovers besides. Even so, there were some things they were able to teach me: Sister Serafina, the art of poison; Sister Thomine, how to wield a blade; and Sister Arnette, where best to strike with it, laying out all the vulnerable points on a man’s body like an astronomer charting the stars.

If only they had taught me how to watch innocents die as well as they taught me how to kill, I would be far better prepared for this nightmare into which I’ve been thrust.

I pause at the foot of the winding steps to see if I am being watched. The scullery woman scrubbing the marble hall, the sleepy page dozing against the doorway—either one of them could be a spy. Even if neither has been assigned to watch me, someone is always willing to tattle in the hopes of earning a few crumbs of favor.

Caution prevails and I decide to use the south stairs, then double back through the lower hall to approach the north tower from that side. I am very careful to step precisely where the maid has just washed, and I hear her mutter a curse under her breath. Good. Now I can be certain she has seen me and will not forget if she is questioned.

In the lower hall, there are few servants about. Those who have not been driven out are busy with their duties or have gone to ground like wise, clever rats.

When at last I reach the north wing of the palace, it is empty. Quickening my pace, I hurry toward the north tower, but I am so busy looking behind me that I nearly stumble over a small figure sitting at the base of the stairs.

I bite back an oath of annoyance and glare down to see it is a child. A young girl. “What are you doing here?” I snap. My nerves are already tightly strung, and this new worry does them little good. “Where is your mother?”

The girl looks up at me with eyes like damp violets, and true fear clutches at my gut. Has no one thought to warn her how dangerous it is for a pretty child to wander these halls alone? I want to reach down and shake her—shake her mother—and shout at her that she is not safe, not on these steps, not in this castle. I force myself to take a deep breath instead.

“Mama is dead.” The child’s voice is high and quivery.

I glance to the stairs, where my first duty lies, but I cannot leave this child here. “What is your name?”

“Odette,” she says, uncertain whether to be frightened of me or not.

“Well, Odette, this is no place to play. Have you no one to look after you?”

“My sister. But when she is working, I am to hide like a little mouse.”

At least her sister is no fool. “But this is not a good place to hide, is it? Look how easily I found you!”

For the first time, the girl gives me a shy smile, and in that moment, she reminds me so much of my youngest sister, Louise, that I cannot breathe. Thinking quickly, I take her hand and lead her back to the main hallway.

Hurry, hurry, hurry nips at my heels like a braying hound.

“See that door?” She nods, watching me uncertainly. “Go through that door, then down the stairs. The chapel is there, and it is a most excellent hiding place.” And since d’Albret and his men never visit the chapel, she will be safe enough. “Who is your sister?”

“Tilde.”

“Very well. I will tell Tilde where you are so she may come and get you when her work is done.”

“Thank you,” Odette says, then skips off down the hall. I long to escort her there myself, but I already risk being too late for what I must do.

I turn back around and take the stairs two at a time. The thick wooden door on the landing has a new latch, stiff with disuse. I lift it slowly to be certain it will not creak out an alarm.

As I step into the cold winter sunshine, a bitter wind whips at my hair, tearing it from the net that holds it in place. All my caution has cost me precious time, and I pray that I have not been brought up here only to see those I love slaughtered.

I hurry to the crenellated wall and look down into the field below. A small party of mounted knights waits patiently while an even smaller party confers with that braying ass Marshal Rieux. I recognize the duchess immediately, her dainty figure poised on her gray palfrey. She looks impossibly small, far too small to carry the fate of our kingdom on her slender shoulders. That she has managed to hold off a French invasion for this long is impressive; that she has done so in spite of being betrayed by a full half of her councilors is close to a miracle.

Behind her and to the right is Ismae, sister of my heart and, possibly, my blood, if what the nuns at the convent told us is true. My pulse begins to race, but whether in joy that I am not too late or in panic at what I know is coming, I cannot tell.

Keeping my gaze fixed on Ismae, I gather up all my fear and dread and hurl them at her, like stones in a catapult.

She does not so much as glance in my direction.

From deep in the bowels of the castle, off toward the east, comes a faint rumble as the portcullis is raised. This time when I cast my warning, I fling my arms out as well, as if I am shooing away a flock of ducks. I hope—pray—that some bond still exists between us that will allow her to sense me.

But her eyes remain fixed on the duchess in front of her, and I nearly scream in frustration. Flee, my mind cries. It is a trap. Then, just as I fear I must throw myself from the battlements to gain her attention, Ismae looks up. Flee, I beg, then sweep my arms out once more.

It works. She looks away from me to the eastern gate, then turns to shout something to the soldier next to her, and I grow limp with relief.

The small party on the field springs to life, shouting orders and calling to one another. Ismae points again, this time to the west. Good. She has seen the second arm of the trap. Now I must only hope that my warning has not come too late.

Once Marshal Rieux and his men realize what is happening, they wheel their mounts around and gallop back to the city. The duchess and her party move to fall into a new formation but have not yet left the field.

Flee! The word beats frantically against my breast, but I dare not utter it, afraid that even though I stand on this isolated tower, someone from the castle might hear. I lean forward, gripping the cold, rough stone of the battlements so hard that it bites into my gloveless fingers.

The first line of d’Albret’s troops rides into my sight, my half brother Pierre in the vanguard. Then, just when I am certain it is too late, the duchess’s party splits in two, and a paltry dozen of the duchess’s men turn their mounts to meet the coming onslaught. Twelve against two hundred. Hollow laughter at the futility of their actions escapes me but is snatched up by the wind before anyone can hear it.

As the duchess and two others gallop away, Ismae hesitates. I bite my lip to keep from shouting. She cannot think she can help the doomed knights? Their cause is hopeless, and not even our skills can help the twelve who so valiantly ride to their deaths.

“Flee.” This time I do utter the word aloud, but just like my laughter, it is caught up by the cold, bitter wind and carried high above, where no one can hear it. Not the one it is meant to warn, nor those who would punish me for the betrayal.

But perhaps something has carried my warning to Ismae all the same, for she finally wheels her mount around and gallops after the duchess. The iron band squeezing my lungs eases somewhat, for while it is hard enough to watch these men meet their deaths, I could not bear to watch Ismae die.

Or worse, be captured.

If that happened, I would kill her myself rather than leave her to d’Albret, for he will grant her no mercy. Not after she ruined his plans in Guérande and nearly gutted him like a fish. He has had many days to hone his vengeance to a razor-sharp edge.

It is folly for me to linger. I should leave now while there is no chance of being discovered, but I cannot turn away. Like the rushing water of a swollen river, d’Albret’s forces swarm the duchess’s guard. The resounding clash is like thunder as armor crashes into armor, pikes break through shields, and swords meet.

I am astounded at the ferocity of the duchess’s men. They all fight as if they have all been possessed by the spirit of Saint Camulos himself, slashing through their attackers much as farmers scythe through stalks of grain. By some miracle, they hold the oncoming line, and their efforts delay d’Albret’s forces long enough for the duchess’s party to reach the safety of the trees. D’Albret’s greater number of men will be less of an advantage if they all must duck and dodge branches and bracken.

From the east, a trumpet sounds. I frown and look that way, fearing d’Albret has thought to arrange for a third mounted force. But no, the black and white banner of the Rennes garrison stands in stark relief against the crisp blue sky as an additional dozen men ride into the melee. When the duchess and the others finally disappear over the horizon, I allow myself to draw my first full breath.

But even with the infusion of new troops, it is a crushing defeat. The duchess’s guards have no chance, not against so many. My hand itches for a weapon, but the knives I carry will do no good from this distance. A crossbow would work, but they are nigh unto impossible to conceal, and so I watch helplessly.

D’Albret had only ever planned for a trap—a quick in-and-out, thrust and parry, and then return with the prize. Once he realizes the quarry has escaped and he no longer has the element of surprise, he gives the signal for his soldiers to fall back behind the castle walls. Better to cut his losses than waste any more men in this failed gambit.

The battle below is nearly over. Only one soldier continues to fight, a great big ox of a man who doesn’t have the sense to die quickly like the others. His helm has been knocked from his head, and three arrows pierce his armor, which is dented in a dozen places. His chain mail is torn, and the cuts beneath it bleed profusely, but still he fights with a nearly inhuman strength, stumbling ever forward into the mass of his enemies. It is all right, I long to tell him. Your young duchess is safe. You may die in peace, and then you will be safe as well.

His head jerks up from the blow he has just taken, and across the distance our eyes meet. I wonder what color they are and how quickly they will film over once Death claims him.

Then one of d’Albret’s men lunges forward and cuts the knight’s horse out from under him. He gives a long, despairing bellow as he goes down, then like ants swarming a scrap of meat, his enemies are upon him. The man’s death cry reaches all the way up to the tower and wraps itself around my heart, calling for me to join it.

A fierce wave of longing surges through me, and I am jealous of that knight and the oblivion that claims him. He is free now, just like the gathering vultures who circle overhead. How easily they come and go, how far above danger they fly. I am not sure I can return to my own cage, a cage built of lies and suspicions and fear. A cage so full of darkness and shadow it may as well be death.

I lean forward, pushing my body out past the battlements. The wind plucks at my cloak, buffets me, as if it would carry me off in flight, just like the birds or the knight’s soul. Let go, it cries. I will take you far, far away. I want to laugh at the exhilarating feeling. I will catch you, it whistles seductively.

Would it hurt? I wonder, staring down at the jagged rocks below. Would I feel the moment of my landing? I close my eyes and imagine hurtling through space, rushing down, down, down, to my death.

Would it even work? At the convent, the sisters of Mortain were as stingy with their knowledge of our deathly skills and abilities as a miser is with his coin. I do not fully understand all the powers Death has bestowed upon me. Besides, Death has already rejected me twice. What if He did so a third time and I had to spend the rest of my life broken and helpless, forever at the mercy of those around me? That thought has me shuddering violently, and I take a step away from the wall.

“Sybella?”

Fresh panic flares in my breast, and my hand reaches for the cross nestled among the folds of my skirt, for it is no ordinary crucifix but a cunningly disguised knife designed for me by the convent. Even as I turn around, I widen my eyes as if excited and curve the corners of my mouth up in a brazen smile.

Julian stands in the doorway. “What are you doing out here?” he asks.

I let my eyes sparkle with pleasure—as if I’m glad to see him rather than dismayed—then turn back around to the battlement to compose myself. I shove all my true thoughts and feelings deep inside, for while Julian is the kindest of them all, he is no fool. And he has always been skilled at reading me. “Watching the rout.” I am careful to make my voice purr with excitement. At least he did not find me until after I warned Ismae.

He joins me at the wall, so close that our elbows touch, and casts me a look of wry admiration. “You wanted to watch?”

I roll my eyes in disdain. “It matters not. The bird slipped the net.”

Julian tears his gaze away from me and looks out onto the field for the first time. “The duchess got away?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He glances quickly back at me, but I keep the look of contempt plastered to my face like a shield. “He will not be happy,” Julian says.

“No, he will not. And the rest of us will pay the price.” I look at him as if just now noticing he is not dressed for battle. “Why are you not on the field with the others?”

“I was ordered to stay behind.”

A brief spasm of fear clutches my heart. Is d’Albret having me watched so very closely, then?

Julian offers me his arm. “We need to get back to the hall before he returns.”

I dimple at him and cozy up to his arm, letting it almost but not quite brush against my breast. It is the one power I have over him—doling out favors just often enough that he does not need to grab for them.

As we reach the tower door, Julian glances back over his shoulder at the battlement then turns his unreadable gaze on me. “I will not tell anyone that you were up here,” he says.

I shrug, as if it is of no difference to me. Even so, I fear he will make me pay for this kindness of his.

Already I regret not jumping while I had the chance.

Chapter Two

I HURRY ALONGSIDE JULIAN, REFUSING to let my mind pick and fret at possibilities. I hold my head high, my scorn of those around me plain on my face. In truth, it is no act, for I loathe nearly everyone here, from d’Albret’s courtiers and attendants to the spineless Breton lordlings who showed no resistance when he seized their duchess’s castle for his own. Craven, lickspittle lackeys, the lot of them.

Julian pauses just outside the great hall, waits for a small cluster of retainers to pass, then slips in behind them, minimizing the chances that our entrance will be noted. And while I am glad he is committed to keeping my secret, I can only wonder what payment he will demand for doing so.

Inside the hall, quiet servants hurry to and fro, carrying flagons of wine, stoking the fire, trying to anticipate every need before they can be scolded or punished for not seeing to it quickly enough. Small knots of people are scattered throughout the hall, talking furtively among themselves. Clearly, word has reached them that d’Albret’s gambit has failed and he will not be returning in triumph.

The only person in the hall who does not have the good sense to cloak himself in caution is the idiot Marshal Rieux. He paces before the fireplace, railing at Madame Dinan that d’Albret has destroyed his honor by springing a trap while under Rieux’s flag of truce. He is a fine one to talk about honor as he was the duchess’s own tutor and guardian—up until the day he betrayed her and joined forces with d’Albret, certain their combined might would convince the young duchess she had no choice but to do what they wished.

But she surprised them all.

There is a deafening clatter of hooves out in the courtyard as the men return, followed by the sound of soldierly chaos—the rattle of discarded weapons, the creak of leather, the clang of mail and armor. Usually, there are shouts of victory and coarse laughter, but not today. Today the men are eerily silent.

There is a thud as a door is flung open. Quick, heavy footsteps stride down the hall accompanied by the jingle of spurs. The entire room—even Rieux—falls quiet as we await the approaching storm. Servants make themselves scarce, and a few of the more cowardly retainers find excuses to leave the hall.

The desire to be elsewhere is overwhelming. It is all I can do to keep my feet anchored to the floor and not turn on my heel and run back up the stairs to the safety of the upper chambers. But my very guilt requires that I stay and show d’Albret that I have nothing to hide. Instead of fleeing as I wish, I lean toward Julian’s ear. “Do you think Madame Dinan and Marshal Rieux are lovers?”

Even though Julian smiles in amusement, he also gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. I frown in annoyance and shrug my arm away from him. He knows me too well. Far, far too well.

And then the force of d’Albret’s presence is upon us, swirling into the room with all the heat and destruction of a firestorm. With him comes the stench of blood and mud and sweat. His face is white with fury, making his beard look all the more unnaturally black. Close on his heels is his main henchman, Bertrand de Lur, captain of the guard, followed by a dozen lords and retainers. Two of them, Barons Julliers and Vienne, were the duchess’s own vassals, but they were so eager to prove their loyalty to d’Albret that they agreed to ride with him to set this trap, even though they knew full well what he had in mind for their liege.

It therefore brings me a great joy to see that Mortain has marqued them both for death—each has a dark shadowy smear across his brow. Between that and the duchess getting away, this day has not turned out half bad.

“Why are you smiling?” Julian asks.

I pull my gaze away from the two men. “Because this should prove most entertaining,” I murmur, just before d’Albret’s voice cracks through the hall like a whip. “Get men up in all the towers. See if anyone is there who shouldn’t be. If a warning was sent, it most likely came from the north tower.”

I press my back against the wall and wish the nuns had taught us a cantrip to call down invisibility.

“Bring Pierre to me!” d’Albret continues. “His charge from the west gate should have come sooner. His laziness may well have cost me my prize.” He thrusts his hands out, and his squire darts forward and removes his right gauntlet. Before the boy can take off the left, d’Albret turns to shout another order. The squire leaps back out of reach and waits warily, afraid to draw closer but even more afraid of not being there when needed. “I also want a detail of men to ride after the duchess and report on her movements and the forces protecting her. If a chance presents itself to snatch her, do it. Any man who brings her to me will find himself richly rewarded.”

As de Lur repeats these orders to his men, a second squire hovers nearby, ready to place a goblet of wine in d’Albret’s hand before he has to ask. Without looking, d’Albret reaches for it, then we all wait in pinprick anticipation while he slakes his thirst. Madame Dinan steps forward as if to calm him, then thinks better of it.

When the count has drained the goblet, he stares at it a long moment, then hurls it into the fireplace. The violent shatter of crystal echoes in the quiet hall. Slowly, he turns back to the room, wielding the silence with as much skill and cunning as he does his sword, letting it grow until it is stretched tighter than a drum skin. “How did the soldiers from Rennes manage to arrive just then, hmm?” His voice is deceptively soft and far more terrifying than his shouting. “How is that possible? Do we have a traitor in our midst?”

The room is silent, each of us knowing better than to risk answering that question. We know we have many traitors in our midst, but it is easy enough to betray a young girl. Whether any of them dared to betray d’Albret is another matter.

Marshal Rieux clenches his fists and takes a step toward d’Albret. Dinan reaches out to stop him, but he is too quick. Mon Dieu, he is either the bravest man I have ever met or the greatest fool.

“How can you have a traitor when no one knew of your plans?” Rieux asks.

D’Albret’s gaze flicks lazily at Rieux’s clenched fists. “It was a last-minute decision.”

“Even so, I should have been told. I gave my word that the duchess would be granted safe parley.” Merde. Does the idiot not feel the sands of his life slipping through the hourglass as he taunts d’Albret?

D’Albret turns his full attention to Rieux. Beside me, Julian tenses. “That is precisely why you were not told. You had given your word and would have clucked and scolded like an old woman.”

Rieux says nothing. Whether because he is stunned by d’Albret’s answer or because he is finally wise to his danger, I do not know.

“Besides”—d’Albret’s voice takes on a mocking note—“look at how well your arguments won her over. It would be a poor commander who had only one tactic for winning a war.” Then, faster than quicksilver, the look on d’Albret’s face shifts and is no longer merely disdainful, but terrible. “You did not learn of this plan and warn her, did you? To protect your honor?”

Rieux recoils. Whatever he sees in d’Albret’s eyes has finally given him pause. “No,” he says shortly.

D’Albret holds his gaze for a long moment before turning back to the room. “How did the garrison from Rennes come to ride to her rescue? Why now? Why today, at this hour?” The count’s eyes glitter dangerously. “The only explanation is that we have a traitor in our midst.”

At least the arrival of the Rennes troops has distracted him from the north tower. For the moment.

“The duchess and Dunois brought news of the French.” Rieux changes the subject abruptly.

D’Albret cocks his head, waiting.

“They say the French have crossed the border into Brittany and have taken three Breton towns, Ancenis among them.”

Ancenis is Marshal Rieux’s own holding. D’Albret purses his mouth, studying the marshal. “No doubt Dunois wished to divert your attention.” D’Albret calls out to Bertrand de Lur. “Send a scouting party to confirm this report.”

De Lur nods, but before he can give the order, d’Albret calls out additional instructions. “When that is done, question the men. See if any have departed for Rennes in the last week. If so, be sure to bring them to me for questioning when they return.”

The men-at-arms grow silent—a few grow pale—for the methods d’Albret uses for questioning are the well-known stuff of nightmares. De Lur nods curtly, then goes to carry out his lord’s orders. On his way out of the hall, he glances at me and winks. I pretend I do not see and instead focus on my brother Pierre as he strides past the departing captain. His helmet is under his arm, his chin is raised, and he has an ugly expression on his face. The white scar through his left eyebrow stands out like a brand. “What happened?” he calls as he strips out of his gloves. “How did she get away?”

D’Albret’s head snaps up. “You were late with your men.”

The accusation stops Pierre cold, and the rush of conflicting emotions that flutter across his face would be humorous if his situation were not so dire. “We were delayed by citizens who tried to jam the gates to prevent our joining you on the field.”

D’Albret studies him a long moment, trying to see if he is lying. “You should have killed them.”

“I did,” Pierre says, his full, ripe mouth sullen.

“You should have killed them faster,” d’Albret mutters, and a bitter laugh nearly escapes my throat. My brother does not murder quickly enough for him. In the end, however, d’Albret gives a brusque nod, which is as close as he ever comes to praise.

A commotion disrupts the tense moment as the returning soldiers herd a half a dozen men into the hall, naught but the dregs of the servants, by the looks of them.

D’Albret taps a finger to his lips. “They were found in the tower?”

De Lur kicks one of the men, who is not groveling enough to suit him. “No, but they were not on duty and have no witnesses to say where they were during the attack.”

D’Albret cocks his head like a curious vulture. Slowly, he approaches the small group of the duchess’s servants. “Are you such very loyal men, then?” he asks, his voice as soft and gentle as the finest velvet.

When no one answers, he smiles. It sends chills down my back. “You can tell me, for I am a great admirer of loyalty.”

The oldest of them does his best to stand tall, but it is clear that he has been beaten and his leg will not work properly. “Aye, my lord,” he says proudly. “We have served our duchess from the moment she was born and do not intend to stop now.”

“The French were not able to buy you off with their gold?”

I close my eyes and pray briefly that the old fool will watch his tongue and look to his own safety, but he is too wrapped up in his honor. “Not us, sire.”

D’Albret takes a step closer, his great bulk towering over the man, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Which of you learned of our little surprise greeting and crept out to warn the duchess?”

“None of us knew,” the old man says, and I start to breathe a sigh of relief. But the fool is still riding high on his great loyalty and adds, “But we’d have told her if we did.”

Annoyed, d’Albret looks over at Pierre. “How did we miss this one?”

My brother shrugs. “Even the best traps don’t catch all the rats the first time, my lord.”

Without word or warning, d’Albret hauls back his steel-gauntleted hand and strikes the old man across the face. The servant’s neck snaps back with an audible crack. Julian squeezes my hand—hard—warning me to stay silent and still. And even though I want to fly at d’Albret, I do not move. Just as that last valiant knight held his position, so must I hold mine. As Death’s handmaiden, I must be in place so I may strike when the time comes. Especially now, when d’Albret’s bold treachery has assuredly earned him the very marque I have been waiting to see for six long months.

Besides, the old man is dead; my anger will do him no good. I utter a prayer for his departing soul. It is the least I can do, although it is not nearly enough.

Marshal Rieux steps forward with a look of outrage on his face, but before he can speak, d’Albret roars out, “I spared your miserable lives.” His voice reverberates through the room like thunder, and the other servants finally have the sense to cower in fright. “And this is how you repay me?” There is a ring of steel as he draws his sword. My stomach shrivels into a tight little knot and tries to crawl up my throat, but before I can so much as call out a warning, the sword cuts through the huddled men. Blood splatters over the floor, then a second blow dispatches the rest.