Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
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Chapter Twenty-Six

A SHORT WHILE LATER, I am awakened by a knock on the door. A little serving maid enters, carrying fresh water for washing and the news that I am expected to attend the duchess’s council meeting.

That summons prods me from my bed and into my clothes like few other requests could, for the truth is, I am sorely anxious to discharge all I know and be rid of it.

When a second knock sounds at the door, I hurry to open it and find both Ismae and Lord Duval waiting outside. I cannot decide whether to be flattered or worried at the nature of this escort, but Ismae gives me a warm greeting, and Duval’s eyes are friendly enough, which eases my mind somewhat.

Duval bows formally to me. “We would like to hear a full report of all that transpired in Nantes, if you can bear to tell it.”

“But of course, my lord,” I say, then step into the hall. Ismae gives me a reassuring wink.

Duval leads us to a more formal chamber than the one I was in last night. The two sentries nod in greeting when they see him, and step forward to open the door.

Even though I have bathed and now wear clean clothes, I still feel dirty in some way I cannot name, as if the taint of being a d’Albret will never leave. The maps have been put away, and instead there are flagons of wine set upon the table, as well as fine silver goblets.

My eyes are drawn immediately to a corner of the room near the head of the council table. Beast is here. They have brought him over on a litter and have rigged some sort of chair and stool for him so he can sit with his leg elevated. He is none too pleased about it and keeps trying to stand up. “I should not be sitting in the presence of the duchess,” he grumbles.

The nun in the blue habit of Saint Brigantia patiently points out that all the other councilors and advisors do.

“But I am a mere knight, not a councilor.”

“Well,” the duchess herself says, putting the matter to rest, “you are now. I appoint you, Sir Benebic Waroch, to my high council so you may advise me on how best to win this war. What say you?”

The look of surprise on his face is near comical. “I humbly accept, Your Grace.” He moves to stand and bow, but the nun pushes him back in the chair.

The duchess turns to me. “I trust you are more comfortable now,” she says kindly.

“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you for your consideration.”

“It is the least I can do for one who has served me so well.” She motions to Duval, who shows me to a chair of my own and hands me a goblet of wine. I take it, glad to have something to hold, and glance uneasily at the others in the rooms, some of whose names I do not even know.

Catching the drift of my thoughts, Duval says, “Perhaps some introductions are in order.” His mouth quirks charmingly. “The abbess and Beast you already know. This is Chancellor Montauban, who fought at my father’s side in many battles. Jean de Chalon, the duchess’s cousin, just recently released from his arrest by the French regent. Captain Dunois, whom I believe you saw carry the duchess to safety on his horse, and the bishop of Rennes, who placed the crown of office on her head with his own hands. The rest, I believe, are known to you. So now we would hear of d’Albret’s plans, my lady.”

I take a deep breath. “D’Albret has not given up his plan to marry the duchess, and will do so by force, if necessary.”

Captain Dunois snorts. “He made that clear when he sprung the trap outside Nantes. He cannot think we are foolish enough to give him a second chance to trick us.”

His dismissal pricks at me, but Ismae rushes in. “It was Sybella who warned us of that trap,” she gently points out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the abbess’s eyebrows lift in surprise.

Captain Dunois bows his head to me. “Then it seems we owe you more thanks, my lady, for you saved us all from certain disaster. But surely she is safe from him now.”

I shake my head. “No. She is not. For that is not the end of it. Even now, he makes plans to march on Rennes.”

A moment of silence fills the room, and then Captain Dunois scowls. “He would not be so foolish.”

“Not to mention that it is impossible,” Chancellor Montauban points out. “The walls are twelve feet thick, more than enough protection against any attack he could bring.”

I lean forward. “Provided the attack come from within.”

Another stunned silence fills the room. I have their full attention now. “Count d’Albret is not only ruthless, but cunning as well. He has already begun sending small groups of his own men to infiltrate the city. Then, when he is ready, he will march on Rennes and send the word for them to open the gates and allow his troops to break the siege.”

“But knowing this, we can stop him. We have over eight thousand troops stationed here in Rennes, more than a match for a handful of his,” Dunois says.

“Are you certain? Do you know every one of your men by sight, Captain? Is it not within those very numbers than many of d’Albret’s saboteurs can hide unnoticed?”

The captain clenches his jaw but says nothing, so I continue. “I do not think you understand the true nature of his ruthlessness. He will show no mercy. The war he will wage is intended to sap the courage from men’s hearts. He will take no prisoners, grant no quarter, collect no ransom.”

“That goes against all rules of war and honorable conduct, demoiselle, and is a most grave accusation,” Chancellor Montauban says. “I assume you have good reason to make it.”

Disappointment as bitter as acid rises in my gut. Why did I think they would believe me?

“She does.” It is the duchess who has spoken, and all in the room turn to look at her. “Do not forget, this man tried to entrap me when we parleyed in good faith with Marshal Rieux. That is not the mark of a man who respects the rules of engagement. Further, he did try to accost me in the halls of Guérande—would have succeeded if Ismae had not stopped him.”

This shocks nearly everyone in the room—everyone except Ismae, Duval, and Beast.

“Are you certain you did not misunderstand his intention, Your Grace?” the bishop asks, and I want to slap his soft, white jowls.

“I am certain,” she says shortly.

While everyone is reeling from this revelation, I decide to try a new approach. “May I tell you of how they took Nantes?” I ask, my voice deceptively sweet.

“By all means, demoiselle,” Captain Dunois says. “I would very much like to hear it.”

“Very well.” I take a fortifying sip of the wine, then begin. “With Marshal Rieux at the head of our column, we were welcomed by the city with open arms. At first they thought the duchess had returned, and while they were disappointed she was not among the party, they did not understand the full treachery that was taking place.

“Once d’Albret and Rieux gained the castle, they bolted the doors and gave the retainers a choice. At the point of a sword. They could renounce the duchess and live. That was their only choice.”

I stare into the flames burning in the fireplace. “Lords Roscoff and Vitre died that night. Lords Mathurin, Julliers, Vienne, and Blaine renounced the duchess and swore loyalty to d’Albret and Marshal Rieux.” I glance up and meet the duchess’s stricken eyes. “Your humbler servants were more loyal, Your Grace. A full half of them lost their lives that day.

“When a contingent of burghers arrived from the city demanding to know what was going on, troops were sent into town to rape their wives and daughters, thus ensuring their cooperation. It did not take long for d’Albret to exert his will and his own special brand of terror over the entire city.”

The duchess has gone white as a corpse. When she lifts her hand to her temple, I see that it is trembling. “My poor people,” she whispers. “All those deaths are on my conscience.”

“No,” snaps Duval. “They are on d’Albret’s conscience, not yours.”

Jean de Chalon speaks for the first time. “Such ruthlessness can be a great asset when it is wielded for one’s own side. Given his ruthlessness and how much the French fear an alliance between you and the count, perhaps that alliance is your best hope for keeping the duchy independent.”

The duchess appears to shrink in on herself, looking smaller and younger. “How wrong is it of me to expect my people to suffer so that I will not have to? I cannot let such violence and death spill over into the entire kingdom just so I can avoid an unpleasant marriage.”

“No!” Duval, Beast, and I all shout at once. There is a moment of awkward silence and I stare at my hands while Duval continues. “You will not marry that brute.”

“You are speaking as a loving brother, Duval, not as a clear-eyed councilor,” the bishop points out. “Perhaps that is our best course of action.”

I want to grab all these men by the shoulders, shake them until their teeth rattle, then ask them how they can be so cursedly blind. A rumbling begins building deep inside me, outrage that these men would so willingly consign this girl to a man such as d’Albret. It is just as it ever was: men of power are unwilling to believe anything ill of their own kind.

Suddenly, the weight of my own secrets nearly chokes me. If ever there was a reason to break the long years of silence, this is it—to prevent this innocent girl from becoming one of d’Albret’s newest victims. To prevent such a monster from becoming ruler of the entire kingdom.

I am so desperate for them to understand the evil nature of this man that I do the unthinkable: I open my mouth and spill the secrets that I have kept for years. “Have you ever asked yourselves what became of the count’s wives?” My throat tightens, as if my body is refusing to utter the words it has kept guarded and locked all this time. The knowledge I share will also raise questions, questions I’d rather not answer in front of Beast. But I cannot keep my secrets if the cost is the young woman before me.

“D’Albret is not just ruthless in battle and merciless in victory. He is a true monster.” I must reach deep for the next words, for they are buried far beneath the surface of daily thought. Indeed, some of the memories remain locked away even from me. “D’Albret murdered all six of his former wives. Surely you would not consign your own duchess to such a fate.”

In the long moment of silence that follows, the shock of what I have just done runs through my body. I am hot, then cold, then hot again. I half believe that d’Albret will somehow know what I have said, and I must remind myself that he is twenty leagues away.

By the grim look on Duval’s face, I see that he at least believes me. But not the others. Their faces are full of incredulity. Chancellor Montauban speaks. “It could be that his actions have been misinterpreted or misunderstood and these are but disgruntled rumors started by those who have suffered defeat at d’Albret’s hands.”

When I answer, my voice is colder than the winter sea. “I am an assassin trained, my lord Chancellor. Not a simpering maid who quails at talk of war.” I consider having them ask Beast, for he will verify the truth of what I say, but it is not my secret to tell. I risk a glance at him and see that he is staring down at his clenched fists.

“I believe what she says is true,” he says at last. “The count no doubt intends grave personal harm to the duchess—if not immediately, then soon after they are wed.”

Dunois rises to his feet and begins to pace. “It is hard for me to believe such despicable accusations of a man who has guarded my back and fought bravely at my side. He has always fought with honor.”

Chalon nods in agreement. “What you are accusing him of goes against every code of honor and chivalry we hold dear.”

“That you hold dear, not d’Albret,” I point out. “Besides, are you so very certain of his honor in battle? Have you never questioned why he and his troops arrived too late at the battle of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier? Because that was not an accident, I assure you.”

“I knew it!” Duval mutters under his breath. The duchess reaches out and places a small hand on his arm to calm him. Or perhaps she is clutching him for support. I cannot be certain.

But it is the bishop whom I have offended the most with my accusations. “If this is true, why have we not heard of it? Why should we believe you? Do you have any proof? In the name of Christ, girl, his brother is a cardinal!”

I glance briefly at the abbess then. “I have long been in his household and know far too well the nature of the man.”

The bishop presses. “Then why have you not come forward sooner?”

A wave of helplessness and futility washes over me, but before I can begin a new round of arguments, the abbess’s cool voice falls into the room like grace. “Gentlemen, you may rest assured that Lady Sybella has spoken the truth.”

I am both surprised and grateful at this unexpected defense. Just as relief begins to unfurl inside me, she addresses them all again.

“Sybella is d’Albret’s own daughter and knows whereof she speaks.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I AM SO STUNNED THAT I can barely breathe. I could not be more surprised—or stricken—if the abbess had reached out and ripped the skin from my bones.

I would certainly feel just as raw and exposed. Indeed, it is all I can do to keep from leaping to my feet and running from the room as every eye turns on me. Is that a new glint of caution I see in Captain Dunois’s gaze? A faint look of revulsion in Chancellor Montauban’s? The bishop merely looks outraged, as if someone has disordered his carefully constructed world simply to spite him. Chalon’s face is also interesting, for it is a carefully shuttered mask, and it is clear his interest has sharpened.

But it is Beast’s gaze that feels the most like a blow.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. If I do not look, I will not have to see the disgust and loathing that now rises from him like steam from a boiling kettle.

And Ismae. What is she feeling right now? For I have known her the longest and have never breathed a word of my lineage. I stare straight ahead and tap my foot, as if I am bored.

The first to speak is Ismae. “Excuse me, Reverend Mother, but is Sybella not Mortain’s daughter, rather than d’Albret’s?”

It is all I can do to keep from leaping from my chair and hugging her.

“But of course, child. She was sired by Mortain, which is how she comes to serve the convent. But she was raised by d’Albret in his household for the first fourteen years of her life. For a certainty, d’Albret considers her his daughter.”

Duval shifts in his chair and sends the abbess an unreadable look. That is when I realize he does not trust her. “I would think the more important question would be whose daughter Sybella considers herself to be. My lady?”

I look up and meet his kind gray eyes. He is giving me a chance to answer this accusation, and I begin to understand why Ismae is so fond of him. “The happiest moment of my life was when I learned I had not been sired by d’Albret, my lord. For as dark as Mortain is, He is a beacon of holy light compared to the baron. So yes, I consider myself Mortain’s daughter.”

Beast shifts in his chair, and every particle of my being screams at me not to be such a coward and look at him. But still I do not, certain that what I will see will break even my hard, shriveled heart.

“Then the matter is settled,” the duchess says. “And it seems to me that if what the lady Sybella says is even remotely feasible, then we have nothing to lose by including that possibility in our plans. Much as when we expect an attack from the north, we still arrange for a strategy in the south, should we be proven wrong.”

Captain Dunois strokes his chin and slowly nods his assent. “That seems wise to me.”

“It cannot hurt,” the chancellor concedes.

But the bishop is still reluctant. “I fear it will draw our energy and resources away from more dire needs.”

“Even so,” the duchess says. “We will act as if every word she says is true.” She turns from the bishop to me. “Tell me, demoiselle, do you have any suggestions for us to consider?”

“We have secured a betrothal agreement with the Holy Roman emperor,” Duval adds. “We could make that public if you think that will deter d’Albret at all. But if we announce it, the French will use it as an excuse to launch a full attack.”

I shake my head. “I fear that news would only make d’Albret move more quickly—to prevent the marriage—rather than stay his hand. But I do agree that the duchess will only be safe once she is married. You must find a way to make the marriage happen now.”

Duval smiles wryly. “That will be difficult with the Holy Roman emperor off fighting in Hungary.”

Without troops, without a strong husband by her side, she is lost.

“Demoiselle.”

At the duchess’s gentle voice, I raise my head to meet her gaze. “You look utterly exhausted and we would command that you go find rest so we may speak again tomorrow. Thank you again for the great service you have done on our behalf.”

I stand and sink into a curtsy. “It was an honor, Your Grace.” And to my surprise, I find the words are true. I relish having something to lay before her besides more deaths. Even if that something now stares at me with hot, furious eyes.

With the meeting adjourned, I follow the abbess out into the hall, my jaw clenched tightly. When we are out of earshot of the others, I surprise both of us by reaching out and grabbing her arm. She stops immediately and looks down at my fingers resting on her sleeve. Even though my heart is pounding at my own daring, I wait a beat before removing my hand. When I do, the abbess lifts her cool blue gaze to my face and raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” I ask. “Why did you tell them who I am?”

She frowns slightly. “So they would know to believe you.”

I study her closely. Is it that simple? Was she only trying to support my claim? “While it is true that their knowing my lineage chased away their doubts, I cannot help but think you could simply have confirmed my statements without revealing my true identity.” Without revealing that I come from a family renowned for its cruelty and depravity—never mind that I have now just betrayed that same family, which is all many will see in my actions.

She moves her hand in an impatient gesture. “It does not matter that they know. Indeed, it is good for them to realize what powerful tools the convent has at its disposal and how long its reach is.” She gives a curt nod, then removes herself from the hall, and I am left standing there, a lamb sacrificed for the elevation of the convent.

Without thinking, I head toward the castle door. I have no desire to go to my chamber and wait for Ismae to search me out, with a hurt and puzzled look in her eyes.

The cool night air does little to soothe my fury. My entire body itches with rage, as if it will burst out of my skin. I do the only thing I can think of, which is begin walking. Away from the palace, away from the abbess, away from Beast, whom my secrets have betrayed. Even with my talent for breaking things, I am astounded at the speed with which I have destroyed this budding friendship.

He knows. He knows I am the daughter of the man who killed his beloved sister. He knows that I have hardly opened my mouth without lying to him. Even now, he is likely going over every question he has ever asked and remembering all the lies I have told him.

He knows I have been shaped in the same dark stuff, with as little redemptive value. It would have been easier if I had been branded a whore or cast out as a leper.

My breath catches in my throat, and I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. It feels as if I’ve ruined one of the few things that has ever truly mattered.

At first, I was simply unwilling to admit to anyone—especially a prisoner d’Albret had treated so poorly—that I was a d’Albret. Then later, when I learned of Beast’s connection to the family, nothing on earth could have compelled me to tell him the truth of who I was.

What else could I have told him but lies? The first time he asked we were but half a league from Nantes with no reason to trust each other. How would I have gotten him to safety?

My one true opportunity came at Guion’s farm, when Beast asked me to tell him of his sister. But while I am strong enough to kill a man in cold blood, play Julian’s razor-edged games, and rebel against the abbess, I was not strong enough to kill that mysterious, tender something that had sprung up between us in that moment.

And that weakness has cost me everything with Beast.

No. There could never have been anything between us. I was given a chance to tilt the scales of justice—just a bit—and that was all. As nice as it was to have someone view me in a flattering light, I was never worthy of his true regard. And now, now he will know that the person he saw when he looked at me was not real.

As if some small part of me seeks to cool my temper, my feet carry me through the darkened streets of the city toward the river. I storm past the elegant stone and timber houses, past the town square, to where the streets are smaller and the houses lean together like drunken soldiers. The streets are busier here, as the scum of the city goes about its business under the cover of night. Small bands of beggars, dividing the day’s spoils; drunken soldiers avoiding the night watch; thieves lurking in the shadows, waiting to take advantage of those too weak or drunk to notice the silent removal of their valuables.

The taverns here do a brisk business, and voices spill out onto the streets. There is a wild, frantic energy in this part of town that fits my mood perfectly. I raise my head and dare any of the dangers lurking in the shadows to try to match its skill against mine. I even slow my steps so that I appear hesitant, fearful—but it does not draw anyone. Perhaps those who prey on others can sense my desire to prey on them.

Frustrated, I continue all the way to the river, where the very dregs of the city lurk. As I stand on the bridge and look into the dark water, the truth I’ve been running from for days rises up like a rotten log from the bottom of a pond. It was not just Beast’s good opinion or respect that I craved, but his affection. The shriveled, withered bit of gristle that lives where my heart used to be has managed to fall in love with him.

The pain and humiliation of that is like a fist to my gut. I grip the stone railing of the bridge and stare down at the river. How deep it is? I wonder. I know how to swim, but my gown and cloak are heavy and would drag me to the bottom in no time.

“My lady.”

Annoyed at the intrusion, I snap my head up.

A drunken soldier saunters toward me. Here is the release I seek. He is a hard-faced fellow, a mercenary, I think, for his jerkin is of boiled leather, and neither his cloak nor his brooch bear any insignia. He is wine soaked enough to be friendly, but not so much that he is impaired. I turn to face him.

“Is my lady lost?” he asks. “For this is no part of town for someone as fair as yourself to be wandering.”

“Do you think I am not safe?”

“No, I think you are at grave risk, my lady. There are any number of louts and ruffians who would take advantage of you.”

“But not you.”

He smiles then, a wolfish grin. “I have only your pleasure in mind.”

“Indeed?” At first, I am not sure if I want to fight him or bed him, but when he places his large, gloved hand on my arm to pull me close and I smell his sour wine breath, I realize it is not his lust I hunger for, but his blood. I want to bury my fury and betrayal in his thick, meaty neck and watch his blood spurt back at me in a red-hot rage that will meet my own.

I could even call it an offering to Mortain. Or the Dark Matrona. Whichever god will listen to my prayers and deliver me from this nightmare I inhabit.

He leans in to kiss me but gives a yelp of surprise when he nearly kisses the tip of my knife instead. He grows still and watches me carefully. I feel his pulse beating in his throat, can see his artery throbbing with the blood that flows through it. Slowly I move my knife nearer. I am tempted—so sorely tempted—but he has done nothing wrong and bears no marque. He has not invaded our country, nor does he serve d’Albret. He has not even tried to harm an innocent, for I am no innocent. Of all the lines I have been willing to cross in my life, this is not one of them.

Just as the point of my knife touches the tender skin at his throat, a scream rings out. At first, I think someone has seen me and cried a warning, but the scream is followed by the sound of blows. My heart quickens at the thought of a true fight, and I content myself with simply nicking the chin of the fellow in front of me.

One fat red drop of blood wells up, then falls to the filthy cobbles beneath our feet. “Be gone from here,” I tell him.

Anger flashes in his eyes, and for one moment I think he will reach for his sword. “Be careful of the games you play, my lady,” he says. “Not all will be as forgiving as I.”

I say nothing. When he turns and walks back the way he came, I hurry in the direction of the scream.

It came from downriver, near one of the stone bridges. As I draw closer, the sounds of a struggle reach my ears, and grip my knife more firmly. Cautious now, I move forward. In the shadow of a bridge’s stone footings, two soldiers struggle with a man and a woman. The man’s thin mouth is split and swollen, and his long, sharp nose is bloody. The woman is backed up against the bridge, and one of the soldiers is unlacing his breeches.

It takes but a second for me to recognize that the victims are charbonnerie, which only serves to stoke my fury. Moving on quiet feet, I creep closer. Something feels familiar about the two soldiers, and when the one restraining the man turns to watch his friend, I feel a jolt of recognition. It is Berthelot the Monk, so called because he never touches a woman. Which means the second man must be Gallmau the Wolf, named thus because he cannot leave them alone. Both are d’Albret’s men, and I feel in my bones it cannot be an accident that I have found them.

Killing two of d’Albret’s own will do much to lessen the pain of my breaking heart.

Gallmau is still leering at the woman and taking his time, so I decide to strike Berthelot first. Clinging to the shadows, I move around the bridge’s piling until I am behind the monk. It will be tricky, cutting his throat while he holds the charbonnerie, but the charbonnerie can take a quick dunk in the river to wash away the blood if he must.

Faster than a striking snake, I step forward, grab the man’s hair and yank his head back, then run my knife across his throat, cutting his vocal cords as well as the main arteries. As Berthelot falls to the ground, the charbonnerie stumbles back, managing to pull his arms free just in time so that he does not go down as well. I feel him glance at me, feel the moment that he recognizes me, but I am transfixed by the marque I see on Berthelot’s forehead. I smile then, and turn to Gallmau, who is so engrossed in his lustful activities he has no idea that death is reaching for him. When I am close enough to embrace him, the woman looks over his shoulder and sees me, and her eyes widen. I hold my finger to my lips, then shove my knife into the base of Gallmau’s skull. In truth, this is not the best knife for this sort of job. A thinner knife would slip more easily between the bones of his neck, but I am able to make this work. And keep the blood from ruining the woman’s dress.

To the girl’s credit, she bites back her scream as Gallmau collapses into her arms, and then she shoves the body away so that he falls onto the ground. I peer down, happier than I can say when I see a second marque appear, for that must mean I have not stepped so far outside Mortain’s grace that He no longer reveals His will to me.

I wipe my blade on Gallmau’s cloak, then return it to its sheath and stand up. “Are you all right?” I recognize the thin, dark-haired man as Lazare, the angriest of the charbonnerie. I doubt that this incident has improved his temper any.

“I should have been the one to kill the pigs,” he spits out.

“You can be the one to kill them next time,” I assure him, and then I ask the woman if she is all right. She shakily nods her head. I turn back to Lazare. “Go, wash the blood off in the river before anyone sees. If you come across any other soldiers or the night watch, simply tell them you had too much wine and fell in.”

He stares at me a long moment. Unspoken things move in his eyes. Rage at being preyed on, discomfort at being saved by a mere woman, frustration that he was not the one to avenge their honor. But there is gratitude as well, even if it is begrudging. He gives me a terse nod and does as I instruct. While he is cleaning himself, I ask the woman, “What happened?”

“We were returning from one last delivery, as Erwan wanted to leave at first light, when these two attacked us. They took our money and were going to . . . going to . . . and when Lazare tried to stop them, they beat him. Thank you, my lady. Thank you for arriving just when you did. The Dark Mother was looking out for us.”

“Or Mortain,” I say. “For that is the god I serve, and it was He who led me here to these two.”

The excitement of the hunt has begun to leave and I realize I am tired. So very, very tired. Even so, I take the time to kneel beside the bodies, search for whatever coin they have on them, and give what I find to the woman. “Now go. Collect Lazare and get yourselves back to the others.”

Once I see them on their way, I begin the long walk back to the palace, empty and hollow, nothing but a burned-out ember now that my rage has passed.