Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
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Chapter Thirty-Four

WHEN THE MEETING FINALLY BREAKS up, I rise to my feet and make my way to the door. I can feel Ismae watching me, begging me to turn and look at her, but I do not. I cannot. Not now. Beast, too, is boring holes in my back with the intensity of his stare, but I ignore him as well. What I need most right now is the privacy and sanctity of my bedchamber.

I reach my room and bolt the door behind me, vowing to open it for no one.

Think. I must think.

This latest news makes walking away infinitely more possible.

The reverend mother would not know for days. Weeks, even. And by then, d’Albret will either have won or been defeated, the direction of the war and our country determined. Duval would protect Ismae and keep her from being sent in my place when the abbess learns that I did not go. And at that point it will be too late for Annith to be of any use.

It is a good plan. A solid plan. Just thinking about it causes the tightness in my chest to ease somewhat.

I begin packing. I will take only those things that will make the reverend mother believe my deception, so only those items a camp follower would own. The laundress gown, and my weapons, of course. All my knives, but not the fancy garrote bracelets, as they are too fine for a mere camp follower to possess. Besides, I can strangle a man just as easily using his own belt.

As I carefully pack the knives I will carry, I marvel at how my desire to kill d’Albret once shaped my life and gave it meaning. But that was before . . . before what? When did my heart turn away from its willingness to die if need be in order to kill d’Albret?

Perhaps once I escaped, once I was no longer in his orbit or infected with the bleak despair that enveloped me while I was in his household. Or mayhap my short time away from him has reminded me that there are things worth living for. There are good people in this world, in this duchy. Those who mean to do all they can to stop d’Albret. Living inside his walls, it was all too easy to forget that.

There is the thrill of a fast horse, and the sun and wind in your face. The rare—and all the more precious for it—moments of laughter to be had. The excitement of seeing Mortain’s marque and knowing the hunt is about to begin. The look in someone’s eye when he truly sees you—not just your face and hair, but the very essence of your soul.

It is a raw and uncomfortable realization that Beast is partly behind this newfound will to live. Not for him, but because he reminded me of what life has to offer. He lives life so joyously—it is impossible not to want that joy for oneself.

My fingers drift to the ring I wear on my right hand, my last resort should my situation ever become unbearable.

Suddenly, my lungs cannot take in enough air and my head grows light. No matter how I wish it to be different, in spite of all our efforts, in spite of every saboteur I have rooted out, I still fear in my heart that d’Albret will win in the end. That he will seize the city and bring it to its knees.

And everyone in it.

Oh, they will fight. All of Anne’s nobles and advisors and men-at-arms will do their best to protect her. And they will die trying, for d’Albret’s ability to inflict death is unsurpassed.

I can see it unfold so clearly in my mind’s eye.

He will fight his way to Anne personally, his long sword slicing through her guard as if they were soft cheese. It is possible my brothers will be at his side, attempting once again to earn his favor.

Ismae and Duval will guard the duchess with their lives—and that is precisely what it will cost them. Once they have paid with those, d’Albret will turn his vengeance upon Anne.

He might not hurt her at first. He will most likely hold Isabeau as hostage, knowing only too well that is where Anne’s heart lies.

I stare down at the small bundle on my bed. What if I were able to stop him, but didn’t? What will my freedom have cost in blood? Will not the very things I hope to live for be lost?

In that moment, I know that I must do as I have been ordered. Not for the abbess, or the convent, or even Mortain.

But for those I have grown to love.

It is late when I leave my chamber to seek out Ismae, but there is still much activity about as the palace prepares for Beast’s departure and the coming siege. Ismae is not in her bedchamber so I head to Duval’s apartments within the palace. It is the only place I can think to look, short of the abbess’s chambers or the duchess’s. It appears I am in luck, for when I reach his door, I sense two pulses beating within. I knock softly.

Duval opens the door. A brief flash of surprise crosses his face when he sees that it is me. “My lady?”

I give him a wry smile. “I have actually come in search of Ismae,” I tell him.

It is hard to be sure in this dim light, but I think a faint tinge of pink spreads across his cheeks. You would think he and Ismae but thirteen years old and experiencing their first bout of puppy love. “She is here.” He opens the door to let me in, then bows. “I will leave you to speak in private.”

“No.” I reach out and grab his arm. “You need to hear what I must say.”

“Very well.” He turns and leads me into his chamber, where I find Ismae curled up in front of the fire, sipping a goblet of wine.

When she sees me, she sets the wine down and leaps to her feet. “Sybella! Where have you been? None of the pages we sent could find you.”

With a guilty start, I remember the series of knocks on my chamber door. “I was packing.”

“You are going?” she whispers.

Unable to speak, I nod.

She takes a step closer. “It is not right,” she says fiercely. “It must be someone else’s turn. I will go.”

Duval looks at her in alarm. “No one will go. We do not need the information at the cost of your lives.”

“I am not here to whine about my fate. I am here to extract a promise from you.” I slip the ring from my finger and hold it out to Duval. “Give this to your lady sister. Make her wear it. Should your last line of defense fail, it will be her best way out.”

Duval stares down at the ring. “I cannot do what you suggest.”

I grab his hand, shove the ring into it, then close his fingers around it. “You must. Trust me. Death will be preferable to d’Albret getting his hands on your sister. He has had far too long to plan all the ways he can break and humiliate her and bring her as much pain as he thinks she’s brought him. Whatever else happens, you must not let him get his hands on her. Her death will be long and unpleasant.”

He looks faintly sick but accepts the ring. “Do you promise?” I ask.

He looks into my eyes. Whatever he sees there convinces him. “I promise.”

Something inside my chest relaxes somewhat. “Thank you.”

“No—thank you. And for what horrors you have suffered, and what further horrors you will be subjected to, I am genuinely sorry. Know that my sister, that all of us hold this sacrifice of yours close to our hearts.”

His words bring tears to my eyes, but I blink them away and get down to business. “Ismae, I came to see if I could borrow your rondelles.”

“My offer was a serious one. I wish to go in your place.”

“I know you do.” I reach out and take her hands in mine. “Which is why you are so very dear to me. But you have duties you must see to here. I fully expect you and Duval to be the last ones standing between the duchess and d’Albret should the city not hold.”

She throws her arms around me and I savor the feel of her holding me close, treasuring me. Then I pull away. “Now. About those weapons . . .”

After some discussion, Ismae gives me her rondelles and half of her poison supply. Now all I must do is wait until daybreak to be on my way. As I leave Duval’s chamber, the urge to seek out Beast is nearly overwhelming. I promise myself I will face him in the morning, and I will tell him everything. Once I have made my confession to him, I can meet death with a clean conscience.

Before the sun has cleared the horizon I am dressed and heading toward the stable. It is not lost on me that of all the things in my life I have dreaded, telling Beast this simple truth is one of the most terrifying.

I find him in the stables, supervising the preparation of the mounts. Instead of using the thick staff they have given him as an aid to walking, he is waving it around, pointing and ordering the others with it. Yannic is with him, and more charbonnerie than I can count. My heart beats so loud I am surprised they do not all turn and stare at the sound, but they are so absorbed in their work that they do not even see me at first.

I try to call out to Beast, but I open my mouth and no words come. I must have made some small sound, however, for Beast turns around, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of me, and he limps his way over to where I stand.

“I was hoping you’d come to see us off, else I’d have to come looking for you.”

That heartens me, that he planned to say goodbye.

“I have something I would talk to you of in private.”

Beast raises his eyebrows and follows me out into the stable yard. Afraid I will lose my nerve, I look down at my hands, which are clutched together so tightly that my fingers have turned white. I relax my grip. “There is something I must explain to you. I have meant to tell you many times, but there was never a good moment.”

He does not so much as flinch, although his eyes become as unreadable as polished steel.

“At first I did not tell you because I was afraid you would not trust me, and I needed your trust so I could get you to Rennes safely. I had hoped that once we were here, no one would have to know my identity. It is not something I am proud of. But that did not—”

“Sybella?”

“Yes?”

“Please know if there were any other way to accomplish this, I would use it.”

“Accomplish what?” I ask, puzzled.

The look in his eyes is tender, and he moves closer so that I wonder if he plans to kiss me. Then his hand flashes, sure and quick, and the world grows black.

Chapter Thirty-Five

THE NEXT THING I KNOW, all the devils of hell are hammering at my jaw, just under my chin, but I do not care nearly as much as I might, for I feel safe. I appear to be in a cave. A warm cave of stone that completely surrounds me, pressing firmly into my back, sheltering me.

I hear a soft whicker—a horse?—then a man’s low voice. “You didn’t tell us we could bring a bit of skirt along.”

A second voice. “It’s not a bit o’ skirt, dolt. The captain would never bestir himself for a trollop.”

“Well, what is she, then?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Enough,” a familiar voice growls.

A throat clears. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s wrong with her, Captain?” The tone is much more respectful now.

There is a pause, and then the cave wall behind my back rumbles. “She fainted.”

I wrench my eyes open, then clamp them shut as harsh bright sunlight pierces my brain and a wave of nausea washes over me. Slowly, my mind sharpens enough to understand that I am not in a cave but clamped between thick, strong arms. The firmness at my back is not a wall of stone, but an armored breastplate. We are moving with a gentle rolling gait.

I struggle to sit up, but the arms are like a vise and hold me firm. “Shhh,” the familiar voice says. “Do not flail about so, you’ll spook the horse.”

Beast.

The bastard has done it again!

The world spins as I try to sit up and put as much distance between us as possible, which is not so very much when we are sharing a saddle. Furious, I jam my elbow down into his thigh, pleased when he grunts in pain. “If you ever do that to me again, I will kill you. I mean it.” And while I do mean it, the words do not sound nearly as threatening as they should.

The other horsemen draw away, giving us the illusion of privacy, for I’ve no doubt that their ears are all straining to hear every word.

There is another rumble from his chest and I cannot tell if it is words or laughter, and my head aches too much to turn around to see. Besides, even though anger and annoyance rumble in my gut like bad fish, I bask in the strength of these arms, relieved to have them between me and the rest of the world. Between me and d’Albret.

Merde! “Where are we?”

“On the road to Morlaix.”

The jolt of alarm and dismay brings a fresh wave of nausea, but I grit my teeth and ignore it as I try to clamber down from the horse. Beast’s arms tighten painfully. “Are you mad?” he says. “Hold still else you’ll fall.”

“I have someplace I must be.”

He says nothing, but his arms tighten even more until I can scarcely draw breath. It would be easy—so easy—to surrender to the strength in those arms. Because I want to do just that, scornful laughter erupts from my throat. “My father will not pay a ransom for me, nor the abbess, if that is what you hope to gain.”

When he speaks, there is an odd note in his voice. “Is that what you think I want? Ransom?”

“Why else would you abduct me? Ransom or vengeance are the only reasons I can think of.”

“I didn’t abduct you; I rescued you!” He sounds affronted by my lack of appreciation.

“I did not ask to be rescued!”

His gauntleted hand reaches out and oh so gently turns my face toward his. “Sybella.” My name sounds lovely and musical on his tongue. “I will not let you go back to d’Albret.”

The tenderness in his eyes undoes me. It is stupid, I tell myself. It means nothing. He rescues everyone he passes on the road.

But my false heart will not listen. Just like he came back for his sister, he has come for me.

Fearing he will see the naked longing of my heart, I turn my face away from his and search for the outrage I felt only moments before, but it is a mere echo of what it once was.

“I must go back,” I say, as much to convince myself as him. “If I do not, the abbess will send Ismae, or perhaps even Annith, who has never even left the convent before. Neither will stand a chance against d’Albret.” I was so ready to accept my fate—this time for the right reasons. Out of love, rather than vengeance. And once again this . . . man, this . . . mountain . . . has destroyed my hard-won resolve with a careless flick of his wrist. And even though none of the desperate reasons that compelled me to commit to that course of action have changed, I fear I will not be able to rekindle my determination.

“The abbess is no fool. Ruthless, perhaps, and unscrupulous, but no fool. She will not send one of her prized handmaidens to certain death. She is using them both to threaten you.”

“I am not willing to risk my friends’ lives on that,” I say quietly. “Besides, what if it is my fate, my destiny, to stop d’Albret, and I do not?”

He is silent a long moment, his cheerfulness disappearing like last winter’s snow. “Can we ever know our own destiny?” he asks. “I believed it was mine to rescue Alyse, but I failed, so clearly it was not. It is possible our fates cannot be known until we are cold in the ground, our lives over.”

Even though I fear he is right, I am not willing to give up. “What if your mission in Morlaix fails?”

“We will just have to be certain it does not.”

“It is a foolish commander who puts all his hope for victory in one basket.”

“Sybella. You cannot stop him. Not alone.”

His words are so seductive, I fear I will have to place my hands over my ears to keep them from tempting me. “But I must,” I whisper.

“Ah, but you have no choice, for you have been kidnapped by someone far stronger than you and there is no escape. Best set your mind to that and be done with it. Besides, I have collected your belongings, so the abbess will think you have left for Nantes, just as you were scheduled to do.”

I cannot help but admire his thoroughness, and some small part of me hopes it might work. To be free of not just d’Albret but the abbess as well? So must Amourna have felt the first time she was allowed to leave hell.

Beast places his big hand on my head and pushes it toward his chest. “Sleep now,” he says. “Else I will have to clout you again.”

Annoyingly, I do what he tells me. I assure myself it is only because I wanted to do it anyway.

When next I open my eyes, the horse has stopped moving, and the sun is angled low in the sky. We are halting for the night.

I blink as Winnog gangles over toward us and Beast prepares to hand me down from the saddle. At Winnog’s approach, the horse prances and paws the air until Beast does something with his heels and mutters a command, and then the horse stills long enough for me to slip from the saddle into the charbonnerie’s waiting hands. “What is wrong with your horse?” I ask once I am safely on the ground.

“That is no natural horse, my lady,” Winnog mutters, “but some foul creature straight from the Underworld itself.”

Beast flashes one of his lunatic grins then steers the creature to the edge of camp where the horses are being tethered.

“My lady? Do you need to rest?” Winnog asks, and I realize I am still clutching his arm.

I let go immediately. “No, thank you. I prefer to stretch my legs.”

He bobs his head. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go help with the horses.”

I stand for a moment, watching the swarm of activity as the party rein in their horses and begin to dismount. A dozen men from the duchess’s army are on fine coursers and stallions, and they jostle for position, trying to steer around an equal number of charbonnerie on their sturdy rouncies and ponies. None of them appears willing to give way before the others, and within minutes it is a chaotic jumble of cursing men and prancing horseflesh. Merde. If this is the sort of cooperation Beast can look forward to, he was beyond stupid to keep me from being the contingency plan. We will be lucky to even reach Morlaix, let alone run off the French so the British troops can land.

A slow realization creeps over me. Rennes is only a day’s ride away, and d’Albret himself will not arrive until late tomorrow at the earliest. If I leave now, I can be there in plenty of time to slip unnoticed into the throng of camp followers that are sure to travel with him.

I glance around the clearing. Yannic is wrestling Beast’s demonic horse to a tether. Beast himself has already fetched his maps and is rolling them out in order to discuss tactics and strategies with his commanders. The charbonnerie are busy casting sullen glances at the soldiers, and the soldiers are busy making their disdain for the charbonnerie plain as day.

No one is watching me. The resolve I feared lost for good rises once more.

I begin sauntering toward the line of horses. As I draw closer, there is a whisper of movement from the trees, and a half a dozen bodies emerge. I freeze, as do the soldiers, their hands going to their swords until Erwan tells them to hold. It is only the charbonnerie women, come to cook for the camp.

During the confusion that the new arrivals bring, I choose a dappled gray gelding tethered the farthest from camp and quickly put his great girth between me and the others, hoping he will hide me somewhat.

I reach out to pet the creature’s silky nose and let him smell me, as if I am merely saying hello. As I do, I glance around, looking for saddle and tack. I will need a bridle if I am to steer this creature back to Rennes. A saddle would be nice, although I can ride without one if need be. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper to the gray, but before I have taken two steps, a hand closes around my arm. A big hand as hard as iron. “Must I hobble you as Yannic has hobbled the horses?”

Damn him. Will the infernal oaf just tend to his business so I can tend to mine? I huff out a breath of annoyance, but there is some relief as well. Furious at myself for being relieved, I pull my arm out of Beast’s grip. “No. You do not need to hobble me; you need only to let me go so I may complete my assignment.”

His normally open face is hard and ruthless. It is the first time I have seen his ferocity focused on me, and I force myself to smile so he will not see how unnerving it is.

“We have discussed this already. You are staying here. Camulos knows this mission can use your skills.”

“There must be a contingency plan in case this half-cooked scheme does not bear fruit. And as much as I loathe the abbess and do not trust her, she is correct in that the more opportunities we have to strike at d’Albret, the better our chances of success.”

He reaches out with his other hand and grabs my shoulder. “I will not let you put yourself in that much danger.” For the briefest of seconds, the anger gives way to a look of stark despair, and then it is gone.

His grip on my arms loosens, and slowly, he leans toward me. My own temper forgotten, I hold very, very still. “If you hit me again, I will kill you,” I whisper.

“It is not hitting I have in mind.” And then his hands move up to cradle my head, making me feel small and fragile—no, not fragile, but cherished. As if I am some precious treasure.

As he leans in closer, I do not move—I do not so much as breathe. I watch his lips as they draw nearer to mine, marveling at the shape of them, how there is the tiniest of dimples in the left corner of his mouth, so small you would not see it unless you were close enough to—his lips find mine. Warm, and softer than they’ve any right to be. I am awash in sensations that have nothing to do with relief or fury. I simply want. I want him, his strength, his honor, and his be-damned lightness of heart. I want to drink all those things up like honeyed wine from a goblet and have them fill me.

Unable to resist, I close my eyes and lean into him and let myself imagine that something between us is possible.

But it is not, not with all the secrets that exist between us still.

Slowly, with regret leaking through every pore in my body, I pull away. His eyes open, and they are filled with warmth. “How can you not be angry with me?” I whisper. “I deceived you repeatedly; nearly every word that passed through my lips was a lie.” I am desperate to put some sort of barrier between us or I fear I will throw myself at him like some simpering maid.

He heaves a great sigh, then steps away to lean on a nearby tree and take the weight off his bad leg. “At first, I was. Furious at being deceived and lied to. And by a d’Albret. It seemed as if the gods themselves were mocking me. Intending to stoke that anger, I went over everything you had said, everything you had done. And while your words may have lied, your actions never did. I have seen you in the harshest of circumstances, escorting a wounded man across the countryside while dodging enemy soldiers and hostile scouts with little thought to your own comfort or safety. You gave more thought to the miller’s daughter and the charbonnerie’s plight than your own well-being. And you killed d’Albret’s own men with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.”

I gape at him, unable to speak, as he lays out this new Sybella I hardly recognize.

He runs his hand over his head. “Once I got past being angry, I was outraged that you hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me the truth. But since I reacted precisely as you had feared, clearly I did not warrant that trust.” He grows serious once more. “But Sybella, I have seen you when there are hard choices before you, not these false choices of memory, and every time, you have chosen well. Chosen the path that helps the most people and hurts others the least. And that is why I bear you no grudge.”

Unable to help myself, I put my hand to his cheek, needing to be certain he is real and not some vision my overwrought brain has concocted. His skin is warm, and his whiskers rough beneath my fingers. “How did your heart grow so very big?” I ask.

A flash of something—pain and perhaps a touch of bitterness—shines briefly in his eyes, then is gone. “Because I have had no one to share it with since Alyse left.”

A shout goes up just then, followed by a ring of steel. A woman screams.

Beast pushes away from the tree and hurries back to the clearing as fast as his injured leg will allow. I lift my skirts and follow.

There is a fight brewing near one of the cook fires. Two charbonnerie women stand warily. I recognize Malina, but not the younger one. Erwan, Lazare, and Graelon have planted themselves in front of the women, like a shield. Facing them all are two of Beast’s soldiers, one with a shaved head, cold eyes, and a drawn sword. “God’s teeth,” Beast mutters as he limps forward. “What is going on?”

The soldier with the drawn sword never takes his eyes from the charbonnerie. “These men have insulted us by drawing their knives. I am only urging them to use their weapons.” His chest is thrust forward, like an angry rooster’s.

“We offered insult? It was you who slandered our wives and sisters by trying to drag them off to the bushes to slake your lust.”

The second soldier—Sir de Brosse—gives a lazy shrug. “Thought she was a camp follower. Didn’t mean any harm.”

Beast reaches out and thwacks him across the back of his very thick skull. “Keep your dagger sheathed, you idiot. There are no camp followers here.”

De Brosse’s eyes slide in my direction, and Beast takes a step closer. “That is the Lady Sybella. She serves Mortain, and unless you wish to be gutted like a fish, I suggest you show her—and all the women in this camp—the utmost respect.”

De Brosse grins sheepishly and bows an apology first in my direction, and then toward the charbonnerie women.

“Gaultier!” Beast snaps at the other soldier. “Put your sword away and see to the setting up of the tents.”

The man’s eyes linger on the charbonnerie until Beast grabs him by the scruff of the neck and shakes him. “My apologies. Sir Gaultier is hot-tempered, and Sir de Brosse has a weakness for women. It will not happen again. Not if they wish to remain in my command.”

Once Beast has escorted his errant soldiers away, there is an awkward silence. “Go on,” Erwan shouts to the onlookers. “You all have work to do. Get to it.”

I retreat to one of the trees and sit down at the base of its trunk to think, still unable to decide what I should do: stay, or return to Rennes and make my way to d’Albret.

I cannot help worrying that I have not earned this boon. But I am only human and not sure I can turn away from such a gift. Besides, if it were my destiny to bring down d’Albret, would I not have already done so in those long months in his household? Why should now be any different?

I long ago ceased believing that prayers did any good, but now it feels as if they have been answered. As if the hand of Mortain Himself has reached into my life, plucked me from my nightmares, and placed me where I most wish to be: at Beast’s side.

I decide to accept this gift the gods have offered me.

In the distance, a wolf howls. Let it come, I think. Beast will most likely simply howl back, and the creature will either turn tail and run or fall into line behind him, like the rest of us have.