Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
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Chapter Thirty

THE NEXT MORNING I AM summoned to yet another council meeting, which makes me uneasy, for the only business the council has with me is to grill me further on my time in d’Albret’s household. Not to mention I am still filled with dread at having to see Beast. I would rather do anything else than face the accusations in his eyes: suffer one of the abbess’s tongue lashings, play one of Julian’s sordid games, even subject myself to one of d’Albret’s punishments. But although I am many things, a coward is not one of them. My heart beating wildly in my chest, I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and enter the room with my head held high. Leaping from the barbicans back in Nantes would have taken less courage.

Beast’s face is calm, and a polite smile hovers on his lips, but his eyes burn with the light blue of a fire’s hottest flame, and the look he gives me has all the force of a physical blow. I smile vaguely at him, then turn to the others.

It is the same advisors as before. They even sit in the same places, except for the abbess, who is now seated at the table rather than lurking in the corner of the room.

“And here is Lady Sybella.” The duchess’s voice is warm and welcoming and gives me some small measure of courage as I take my seat.

“I’m afraid the latest news is dire,” Duval says. “The French are on the march. They have taken Guingamp and Moncontour.”

The duchess grips the arms of her chair, her fingers turning white. “And the casualties?”

“From all I can determine, the French did not meet with much organized resistance. The local burghers, worried about the town, quickly handed it over, and the small pockets of protest were easily dealt with.”

The duchess stares unseeing into the distance. “They are so close!” she says. “What of the English troops? Are they close as well?”

“More bad news, I’m afraid.” Duval’s voice is grim. “A series of storms off the coast of Morlaix has kept the English ships from landing. Those six thousand troops will be delayed.”

“How long will it take the British troops to arrive in Rennes once they have reached the coast?”

“At least a week, Your Grace.”

“Is there any sign the French will attack before then?”

Duval answers with a shrug. “It is hard to say. They seem to be holding just inside our border and are sending out sorties and small scouting parties, nothing more. Except for their attack on Ancenis and the occasional pillaging for food, there have been no reports of fighting.”

Captain Dunois taps his finger on his chin. “What are they waiting for? I wonder.”

“For us to break the Treaty of Verger, is all I can surmise,” Duval says. “We have had much acrimony between the French regent and our own politics, but we have honored the dictates of the treaty. At least openly,” he adds with a rakish grin.

“Do you think they know of our negotiations with the Holy Roman emperor?” The duchess’s brow is furrowed with concern.

Duval considers. “Suspect it, yes. But do they know? I do not think that they do. If they had actual knowledge of the betrothal agreement, they would have used that to justify an attack by now.”

“True enough,” Captain Dunois agrees. “I suppose it is too much to hope for that if Count d’Albret decides to march on Rennes, he will run into the French and they will eliminate each other.”

Duval gives a rueful smile. “Would that we were so lucky.” He pauses to look at his hands, then meets his sister’s gaze full on. “It is said that bad news arrives in threes, Your Grace.” Looking as if he could happily commit murder, Duval delivers the final blow. “We have received a letter from Count d’Albret.”

All eyes in the room turn to me. I ignore the sharp sting of their regard and concentrate wholly on Duval and the duchess, as if we are having a private conversation. “Does he know Beast is here?” I ask.

“Not that he indicates. The purpose of the letter was to ask that the duchess reconsider honoring their marriage agreement, else he will be forced to do something she will not like.”

“Besiege the city,” I whisper.

Duval nods. “He does not come out and say so, but that is my assumption as well.”

The duchess, who has gone pale at this news, visibly gathers herself. “What of the Holy Roman emperor? Has he received word of how dire our plight?”

“He has. He will send two auxiliaries to aid us.” Duval’s voice is drier than high summer.

“Two auxiliaries?” Captain Dunois says. “Is he serious? So few, and not even professional soldiers?”

“I’m afraid so. He is also suggesting that we perform the marriage ceremony by proxy in order to get the thing done.”

Jean de Chalon shifts uneasily in his chair; it is his overlord they are speaking of, and perhaps he feels his loyalties are being stretched thin. “I am sure he is doing all that he can. He is much besieged by his war with Hungary.”

Duval does not deign to answer this. The duchess’s mouth tightens in disapproval, but she does not contradict her cousin, although I feel certain she wishes to. “Does a marriage by proxy even count in the eyes of the Church?” she asks the bishop.

“Yes, it can, if done properly.”

“But we still won’t have his troops to defend the alliance,” Captain Dunois points out.

“What of mercenaries? How difficult would it be to get companies of mercenaries here?”

“Not too difficult.” Duval’s voice is gentle, as if he wishes to take the sting from the words that now follow. “What presents a problem, Your Grace, is that we have no money to pay them.”

She looks at him blankly for a moment. “None?” she whispers, then looks to her chancellor.

He confirms Duval’s assessment. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. The duchy’s coffers were greatly strained by the wars with the French over the last two years. The treasury is empty.”

The duchess rises from her chair and begins pacing in front of the fire. She is very nearly out of options, and she must know it. “What of my family’s jewels? The silver plate? The crown—”

The bishop gasps in horror. “Not your crown, Your Grace!”

“Will that bring enough coin to pay them?”

“Your Grace! Some of your jewelry has been in your family for generations,” Chalon says. I cannot help but wonder if he is keeping track of what he would inherit if anything were to happen to the duchess.

“Jewels can be replaced, my cousin. Independence, once lost, cannot.”

The room is silent as the company digests her words, then Beast leans forward to speak for the first time. “There are some who would fight at our side for free,” he tells them.

“Who?” Captain Dunois and Chancellor Montauban ask at the same time.

“The charbonnerie.”

“This is no time for jests,” the chancellor says with reproach.

Beast meets his eyes levelly. “I am not jesting. Furthermore, they have already agreed to fight by our side.”

“They are nothing but outcasts, ruffians who must scrabble in the forest to get by. Do they even know how to hold a sword?” Montauban asks.

“They do not fight by conventional tactics, but with the art of ambush and surprise.”

Chancellor Montauban opens his mouth to argue some more, but Duval interrupts him. “I do not think we are in a position to turn down any offers,” he says. “Beast and I will talk of this later.”

The abbess of Saint Mortain breaks the awkward silence that follows. “What of d’Albret’s men?” It is only years of practice that keeps me from flinching at her words, for while she directs her question to Captain Dunois, I know in my bones it is intended for me. “Have you been able to locate any of the saboteurs?” she asks.

The captain shakes his head. “No, there are so many men-at-arms in the city, all from such scattered parts of the country, and not all are known to me. I have begun to put word out to the garrison commanders to be wary, but there are over eight thousand men-at-arms, and two dozen places where they could help d’Albret’s main force breach our defenses. It will take time.”

Once again, I can feel the immense weight of Beast’s gaze upon me. I do not know if it is that gaze, the abbess’s veiled barbs, or my desire to erase some of d’Albret’s taint from myself, but before thinking it through, I speak. “I could identify them.”

All eyes turn toward me. One gaze in particular feels sharper than broken glass. “You?” the abbess asks.

“Who better?”

The duchess leans forward, her eyes serious. “You do not need to do this. You have already put yourself in far too much danger.”

“My sister is right. Besides, in practical terms, if they saw you, it might tip our hand,” Duval says.

I nod my head in agreement. “But they do not need to see me in order for me to identify them. It is no hard thing to don a disguise.”

Beast speaks for the first time, his voice rumbling into the small room. “I am not certain that is advisable,” he says.

My head snaps up. His dissent is like a kick to my gut, for while I know he is angry with me, I had not realized his newfound distrust would run this deep. “I do not see how we have a choice if we wish to gain the upper hand in this.”

“There is always a choice.” Beast turns from me and addresses the others. “I think this is a bad idea.”

“Do you not think I am capable, my lord?”

His hands grip the arms of his chair so hard that it is a wonder the wood does not splinter. “I know full well you are most capable, my lady. What I do not know is whether the costs would be worth the risks.”

“And what risks would those be, my lord?” My words drip with honeyed sweetness that is as false as it is polite.

He says nothing, but he glowers at me from across the table. The loathing he shows toward me is every bit as painful as I feared. “If you do not trust me—”

“Of course he trusts you, my lady! If not for you, he would still be rotting in some dungeon, or worse.”

“I am so glad that someone remembers,” I mutter. I take a steadying breath, and when I speak again, my voice is calm. “If you do not trust me, or are too worried about the risks, the captain can send whatever men he likes to accompany me. Indeed, the plan will only work if he does, for a man can stay close to the traitors and mark their movements, while I cannot.” Beast and I hold each other’s gazes for a long moment.

Captain Dunois begins stroking his chin again, a sure sign he is deep in thought. “I do not see how it could do any harm. And while I hate to ask this of you, it is unnerving knowing his agents are lurking about in the city, waiting for orders from him. We could start with the free companies and hangers-on. That would be the easiest place for someone to slip in unremarked.”

“I concur, Captain. It is decided, then. How shall we do it?” We spend the better part of an hour hammering out a plan. The entire time, I can feel the abbess watching me. Her displeasure puzzles me somewhat, for have I not done the very thing she wishes, showing how helpful the convent can be in such times? But it may be that only she is allowed to offer such help.

By the time we finally have our plan in place, Beast is pale, whether from his injuries or his fury, I cannot tell. As we rise to leave, the abbess takes two steps toward me, her lips pressed into a flat line. Before she can say anything, the duchess calls out. “Lady Sybella?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Will you attend upon me this afternoon? I have some things I would speak with you on.”

My heart skips lightly at this reprieve she has granted me. “But of course, Your Grace.” Without glancing back at the abbess, I follow the duchess out of the room.

Chapter Thirty-One

“METHINKS YOUR ABBESS WAS NOT pleased with the service you offered us in the meeting.”

“She did seem most unhappy. Forgive me if I overstepped, Your Grace. I only wished to help in some way. It is my family, after all, that is plaguing you so.”

Much to my surprise, the duchess stops walking and grabs my wrist. “No,” she says fiercely. “I do not hold you responsible for Count d’Albret’s actions. If I held you responsible for those, then would I not be responsible for what he has done in my name?”

I stare mutely, as I have no answer to give her.

“Tell me,” she whispers, her hands twisting together in a knot. “Tell me of those who died at Nantes. Tell me so that I may honor their memory and the sacrifice that they made.”

In that moment, my budding admiration coalesces into respect. She accepts not only the power and privilege of ruling, but also the painful responsibility.

“The nobles went first. Your seneschal, Jean Blanchet, tried to organize a true defense of the ducal palace, but he was betrayed by Sir Ives Mathurin. Sir Robert Drouet fell in that battle, as well as two dozen men whose names I do not know. The townspeople were confused. They were inclined to trust Marshal Rieux when he said that he spoke on your behalf. It was not until the nobles moved against him that the townspeople realized their error, but it was too late, for they had opened the gate to the city and allowed them in. D’Albret had his troops harry and terrorize the burghers first, in order to weaken any resolve they might have held and to squelch any desire to rise up against him. It worked.

“The servants were the most loyal. They had known and served you since you were a babe. Allixis Baron, your comptroller; Guillaume Moulner, the silversmith; Jehane le Troisne, the apothecary; Pierre the porter; Thomas the doorkeeper; a laundress; a full dozen archers of the guard; your master of the pantry; the cook; two cupbearers; and a full half of the palace guard. They all died with your name on their lips and honor in their hearts.”

Her eyes are bright with tears and I am struck again that she is but thirteen years old. Younger than I was when I first arrived at the convent.

No, I was never that young.

I say the only thing I can think of to comfort her, and in the end, it is not much comfort at all. “The traitors Julliers, Vienne, and Mathurin are dead, Your Grace. They have paid the ultimate price for their crimes.”

She looks up, her eyes gleaming fiercely. “Good,” she says. “If Mortain would bid you kill all the traitors in such a way, I would be most pleased.”

She thinks I killed them all at Mortain’s command. I do not explain that one was done in by my own twisted brother’s jealousy.

The abbess suggests I masquerade as a whore to look for the saboteurs, but Captain Dunois, for all his gruffness, has a chivalrous heart. He will not hear of it. He suggests I disguise myself as a laundress instead and points out, reasonably enough, that a laundress has an equally legitimate excuse for mingling with the soldiers. Besides, many of them traffic in both laundry and favors, so if needs must, I can play the whore in a pinch.

The abbess counts it one more mark against me that Captain Dunois opposes her plan, but it was not my doing.

I lean in close to the silvered mirror and apply small, thin strokes of charcoal to my eyebrows, making them thick and shapeless. Next I take an even smaller piece and create lines of fatigue on my face, after which I put a faint smudge of coal dust under my eyes so I will look exhausted from my toil. I finish the transformation with a smear of black wax on my teeth. In truth, I cannot wait to be someone else for a while, even a poor, drab laundress. Someone who does not leave pain and betrayal and heartache in her wake. Of course, the opportunity to thwart d’Albret is equally welcome.

I take a handful of ashes from the fire and rub them into my hair, making it a shade or two lighter and much coarser-looking. It was my hands that presented the biggest challenge, for even with my recent work with the poultices, they were smoother and softer than a laundress’s should be. To correct that, I soaked them in a strong lye soap solution for nearly two hours. Now they are red and raw and chapped, and they sting accordingly. I am most pleased with my disguise.

“No one will ever recognize you,” Ismae says from where she sits on the bed.

“That is the point,” I say wryly.

“Even so, the transformation is more thorough that anyone could have hoped.” She rises and brings me the linen coif for my hair. It is old and worn out, but far too clean, so I make her dirty it in ashes from the hearth. When that is done, she places it on my head and helps me tuck my hair up under it. “There.” She steps away to see the full effect. Worry creases her brow. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“I have nearly a half a dozen blades under my washerwoman gown.” Two strapped at my waist, one on each thigh, and yet another hidden along my back. I feel nearly naked without knives at my wrist, but soldiers can be a grabby lot and I cannot risk them discovering thick, solid steel. “I am ready,” I tell her.

She takes a step toward me, hands clasped in front of her. “Have a care for yourself,” she pleads.

Touched by her concern, for she is one of the few who genuinely care about me, I give her a quick hug. “I will be, but remember, these are but d’Albret’s men, not d’Albret himself. They will be no match for me.”

Somewhat reassured, she smiles. “Very well, then. Let us go find Captain Dunois.”

We find the captain waiting for me in the main hallway. Duval and the abbess are with him. I am torn between pride at showing the abbess how well I can do this task and not wishing to expose myself or my talents to any more of her plots and intrigues.

“Sweet Jésu,” the good captain mutters. “I would never have recognized you.”

Dunois had wanted to escort me on the search himself, but it would have called far too much attention to my presence. Instead, he has handed the assignment off to the commander of Rennes, Michault Thabor, and a few of his most trusted men.

I place perhaps less trust in them than he does, but it is the best we can do under the circumstances.

And then it is time to go. My heart beats with anticipation, and the thrill of a new adventure tingles through my limbs. Feeling saucy, I turn to the abbess. “Will you not invoke Mortain’s blessings on our venture, Reverend Mother?” While I ask it of her out of spite, I realize I would like His blessing, for all that He and I are at odds with each other right now.

Her nostrils flare in irritation, but she bows her head and places a hand on my coifed hair. “May Mortain guide you and keep you in His dark embrace,” she intones, then removes her hand quickly. Even so, I feel somewhat calmer, as if Mortain has somehow heard her in spite of her ill grace.

We leave the palace through the servants’ quarters, but since it is late and most are abed, our passing goes unnoticed.

Outside, a disreputable-looking donkey awaits with two baskets, one on either side. They are even filled with laundry.

Commander Thabor speaks to me in a low voice. “We have identified all the vulnerable spots in the city: the gate towers, the sally ports, the bridges, the cistern, and the gates along the river.”

“Excellent. What of the patrols?”

“We have doubled the watch along the city walls and increased the number of patrols at their base.”

“Where do you suggest we begin?” I ask.

“The east gate, then we will work our way around to the other gates.”

“Very well. Lead on.”

Thabor nods and walks purposefully ahead while his men scatter out so that it will not appear as if we are together. It would not do for me to be seen with them, for what business would the captain of the city guard have with a laundress? I know it is supposed to give me comfort, being followed by the guards, but it makes the skin between my shoulders twitch, which I force myself to ignore.

The city streets are quiet, as all smart or respectable citizens closed their doors and shutters and took to their beds long ago. As we move through streets full of houses leaning drunkenly against one another, the clop-clopping of the donkeys’ hooves echoes off the cobblestones and sounds loud to my ears. However, if people hear us, they just snuggle deeper in their beds or ensure their doors are latched.

The buildings become smaller and seedier as we move farther away from the palace area. Meager shops and small taverns are interspersed among these smaller houses, and the streets are louder. At last we reach the military road that runs along the city wall. No one but soldiers should be on this road at this time of night. We pass three small watchtowers before we finally come to the east gatehouse. Commander Thabor walks past as if hurrying on some business of his own, but he will find some shadow in which to wait for me.

Still leading the donkey, I walk up to the gatehouse and halt just outside the door. The sound of murmuring voices reaches me, as the men on watch amuse themselves by telling stories. I hoist one of the baskets from the donkey’s back, settle it on my hip, then head for the door. The guard on duty watches my approach with lazy eyes. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I am looking for Pierre de Foix.” It is the name of a soldier who has taken ill with the flux and is even now abed in the infirmary. He will most definitely not be on duty.

“He is not here, so you may be on your way.”

My eyes snap with irritation—I do not even have to pretend—and I swat the basket of laundry in annoyance. “He owes me four sous for his laundry. I do not do this backbreaking work out of pity.” I take a step closer to him, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. “Ah, perhaps that is it. Perhaps Pierre has lost all his money dicing. How do I know you are not hiding him, eh? I think he has spent all his money on gambling and will not pay me for my honest work.”

“Honest work,” the guard scoffs.

Like a fishwife, I am merciless. “He told me he was to be on duty this night at this post. Why would he lie to me unless he was trying to cheat me? I will report him to your captain.”

Before I can continue, the guard reaches out, grabs my free arm, and pulls me close. “Do not call me a liar, wench, else I will have to punish you. Here. Look.” With that he pushes me through the gatehouse door and holds me there. “See with your own eyes that the man you seek is not here, then be gone.”

Praying that Thabor’s men will remain in their positions and not do something foolish, I quickly glance at the small group of men. There are five of them, and none are familiar to me. A sixth man turns from the small brazier in the room and grabs his crotch in a rude gesture. “I have something you can wash for me, eh?”

For a brief moment, everything inside me stills. The hair on the man’s head is as brown as a walnut, but his beard is red, and I recognize him as Reynaud, one of my father’s men. Quickly, I toss my head and turn for the door so that he will not be able to see my face. “I do not do small pieces, only large,” I call over my shoulder. That sets the room to guffawing, and I use the opportunity to step beyond the sentry’s reach and back into the night where the cover of darkness will further obscure my features. “He is probably hiding somewhere,” I mutter with ill grace.

The sentry puts a hand to his sword, but I move quickly away. As I do, I see two dark shapes—my guards—step back into the shadows.

I return to the donkey—grumbling just loud enough that the posted guard can hear me—and replace the basket on the donkey’s back. It is not until we have moved into the next street that Commander Thabor appears at my side. “What happened there? Why did he grab you?”

“He thought I was calling him a liar. Which I was,” I say with a smile. “But he let me in to see, so it was worth it.”

“Have a care,” he growls at me, “as I am personally responsible for your safety.”

“Reynaud. I do not know if that is the name he is using here in Rennes, but one of d’Albret’s men is on guard in that gatehouse. The one with the brown hair and the red beard.” Thabor assigns one of his men to stay behind and attach himself to him, then we move on. I am thrilled with this first victory, and the night suddenly holds much promise.

The water tower has a smaller garrison inside. Only four soldiers this time, one of whom offers to buy Pierre’s abandoned laundry, but none of them are d’Albret’s men.

And thus the night goes, with me moving from one gatehouse to the next. Some with a dozen men, others with only four. But none of them with any more potential saboteurs. Bleak discouragement fills me, for if there is one man, I know in my bones there must be others. And I need to find them so we will not feel like sitting ducks waiting for d’Albret to spring his accursed trap.

We have patrolled only the towers on the east side of the city, but already the sky has begun to lighten. My disguise will not hold in broad daylight. With reluctance, I allow Commander Thabor to turn us around so we may begin heading back to the palace. “Do not look so discouraged,” he tells me. “We found one. We will find the others.”

“Yes, but I would prefer to find them sooner rather than later.” Just then a man bursts out of a nearby door, startling my donkey and causing the soldiers to reach for their swords. But it is just a drunken stoneworker, stumbling his way home. I stop. But of course. “I wish to go inside,” I tell Thabor. “For if the men I seek are not on duty, they will most likely be found in a tavern or wine shop.”

“Those were not my orders,” he says tightly.

“Your orders were to accompany me while I flushed out the traitors in our midst. I am not asking your permission, Commander, but telling you what I intend to do.” Our gazes hold for a long tense moment, and I cannot help but remember how easily Beast accepted the risks I took. Despair raises its dark head and I let the pain of it fuel my impatience. “Well?”

Finally, he nods. “But one of us will accompany you.”

I long to argue, but I am running out of time. “Very well. You.” I point to the one named Venois. “Come here. You will be my companion for the night.” He glances at his commander, who nods his assent, then comes to stand before me. I reach up and loosen the lacings at his throat. Even as the protest starts to form on his lips, I tousle his hair, then tug his sword belt so that it hangs askew. “You have been on a drunken revel with me through the taverns of Rennes tonight. You must look the part.”

He glances at his commander again, and the mute appeal in his gaze makes me want to slap him. Does he not realize how many men have begged me for just such an opportunity as he is being handed? I grab his arm, tuck it into mine, and begin steering us sloppily toward the tavern door.

The tavern is nearly empty at this hour; only the dregs of its customers remain. Three men slump on tables, barely holding themselves up as they sip the last of the wine from their cups. Another man sits in a corner fondling a serving maid, who is dozing in his lap. A half dozen men squat by the light of the dying fire, dicing.

I take all this in as I lean heavily on Venois and stumble us both toward a bench. Venois is stiff, and I can only hope anyone sober enough to notice will assume it is his military bearing rather than unease. A harsh shout goes up among the dicing men, and I softly jab him in the ribs. “Slouch a bit,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. “And shuffle your feet, then call loudly for wine.”

He does as I command, and an annoyed-looking serving maid nods in our direction. I gently steer Venois to a seat where I can better see the dicing men. I do not recognize any of the men at the tables, and while I do not know all of d’Albret’s men by sight, there is a certain sameness of manner that they possess—an ill-tempered, belligerent way of looking at the world—and none of those men have it.

The dicing men are my last hope to make something of the evening. I wait for the serving maid to set our wine down before us, then take a big gulp. It is watered and sour and it is all I can do not to spit it out. Instead, I force myself to swallow, then lean toward Venois. “Do you dice?”

The soldier shrugs, then downs half his wine. “Upon occasion. But mostly, I try not to.”

I wait half a beat, but he does not volunteer. Just as I open my mouth to tell him he must join the men in front of the fire, another shout goes up among them, this time accompanied by the ring of steel.

A quarrel has broken out, and my heart soars when I recognize Huon le Grande, who is nearly as large as d’Albret himself and possibly just as unpleasant. The man waving his sword at the other two, the one with the wispy beard and a large nose and only three fingers on his left hand, is Ypres. Next to him is Gilot, short and squat and mean as a wounded badger. I nearly laugh with pleasure that they are too stupid to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

I drape myself over Venois and pretend I am nuzzling his ear. “Three of the dicers are the men we seek.”

That seems to perk him up somewhat, and he plays his part with more gusto, if not more skill, as I point out which of the men are d’Albret’s.

But the night is nearly over, and the tavern keeper’s a large, hard-fisted man who kicks all of d’Albret’s men out before they can ruin his establishment. He kicks the rest of us out too, just for good measure. I am in infinite danger as I stumble out the tavern door practically on d’Albret’s men’s heels, but my disguise holds, and their gazes are bleary with drink. Venois keeps one firm hand on my elbow and the other on his own sword, giving the rowdy men no chance for an advantage. It is with a light heart that I describe them to Thabor and then watch as three of the captain’s men slink off into the darkness to keep watch over the saboteurs.