Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
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Chapter Four

I AM AWAKENED IN THE morning when my two ladies in waiting come bursting into the room. Jamette de Lur leads the way, pausing barely long enough to keep the door open for Tephanie Blaine, who struggles with a tray.

“Did you hear?” Jamette asks.

She is a vain, silly girl given to drama and putting on airs and takes far too much pleasure in my fall from d’Albret’s favor. “Good morning to you too,” I drawl.

Reminded of her place, she flushes slightly, then dips a begrudging curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”

“What is this news you are screeching about?”

She is torn between denying that she was screeching and launching into her drama. The drama wins. “They rooted out a nest of traitors and rebels yesterday! If not for their quick action, we could all have been slaughtered in our beds.”

So that is the story d’Albret and the others are putting out. There is a faint rattle as Tephanie sets the tray down on a table. “Also, a servant girl went missing during the night.”

I throw off the covers and get to my feet. “My, the castle was busy while I slept! Surely this servant just snuck off to visit her lover?”

Tephanie looks at me with stricken eyes and I see that she is genuinely frightened. “They searched the castle high and low and found no signs of her.”

Jamette tosses her head and hands me my chamber robe. “Some say she was in league with the traitors.”

Débile! I should have seen that coming. I was so concerned with getting them away as soon as possible I didn’t stop to consider the timing.

“I heard she was killed for seeing something she shouldn’t have,” Tephanie says as she gives me a cup of heated wine.

My head snaps up to study her more closely, but she does not appear to be insinuating anything. “Where did you hear that?”

She shrugs. “The servants were talking when I fetched your tray.”

I say nothing and sip the wine, taking a moment to compose myself.

Jamette’s eyes go wide. “Mayhap the ghosts got her.”

I bite back a sigh. Must I give up sleeping altogether in order to stay abreast of what goes on in this castle? “What ghosts?” I ask.

“The ones in the old tower. It is well and truly haunted. Many have heard the ghosts moaning and wailing and making a terrible noise.”

Tephanie crosses herself, then turns to me. “Here is your clean chemise, my lady.”

I set down my wine and shrug out of my robe. Tephanie’s cheeks pinken with embarrassment as she helps me into my shift. “My lady is growing thin,” she murmurs. “You must try to eat more.”

While I cannot help but wish she were less observant, I am inexplicably touched that she has noticed.

“It does not help your looks any that you insist on wearing all these dark colors,” Jamette says, holding out a gown of patterned black brocade. “It makes you appear unnaturally pale.” What she chafes at is that my complexion is fairer than hers.

“I’m afraid my time at the convent of Saint Brigantia has lessened my love of material luxuries,” I tell her. Since rejoining d’Albret’s household, I have worn nothing but somber colors—not because of some newfound piousness, but out of respect for all those d’Albret has murdered.

Tephanie hands me the silver chain from which my special crucifix hangs and helps to fasten it about my waist. The chain also holds nine glass rosary beads, one for each of the old saints and every one of them filled with poison. “If we hurry,” she says, “we can attend mass this morning.”

I glance up at her. “Do you want to attend mass?”

She shrugs. “It seems like a good day for it.”

“Tephanie, my little mouse, what forgiveness must you pray for?” Her sins can only be those of a small child—the wanting of a sweet or a new gown. But she blushes in embarrassment, and I am pricked with guilt for having teased her. “Go,” I tell her. “Attend your mass.”

Her face falls. “You mean, alone?”

“I do not wish to pray for forgiveness.”

“Although, Heavenly Father knows, you need it more than most,” Jamette mutters. I pretend I do not hear her but add it to her long list of transgressions.

“Wait,” I tell Tephanie. “You are right. With rebels and ghosts lurking in every corner, it is not safe to wander this castle’s halls.” They do not catch my irony, but the truth is, we have more to fear from those who claim to protect us than from any rebel or spirit.

I tug my skirt into place and then hurry to one of my trunks. I retrieve two of my smaller knives and turn back to the others.

Tephanie’s eyes widen. “Where did you get those?” she asks.

“From my brothers, goose, where do you think? Here.” I thrust one at her. “Carry it from the chain at your waist. You, too.” I hand the second one to Jamette. “Now, hurry along or you will miss your mass,” I tell Tephanie.

“But—”

“When you are done, come find us in the solar.” Realizing she will never leave unless I order her to, I add, “You are dismissed.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she bobs a curtsy and then, still clutching her knife, hurries from the room.

When she is gone, I sit down so Jamette can dress my hair. In truth, I can do a better job myself, but it irks her to have to serve me, so I relish giving the task to her. It is almost not worth it, for she is intentionally ungentle and there are some days, like today, when I fear she will tug all the hair from my head. It makes me long for Annith and Ismae, their gentle hands and soothing ways. Not to mention their razor-sharp wits. My heart twists with longing, hot and bitter.

As I glance resentfully at Jamette’s reflection in the mirror, I see she sports a new ring on her finger, fashioned of pearls and a ruby. A prize, no doubt, for carrying reports of my movements and actions back to my father. I cannot help but hate her for it; I already feel trapped and suffocated. Knowing that she relays my every move to him makes it nearly impossible to breathe.

After I have dressed and broken my fast, there is nothing for it but to join the other ladies in the solar. I dare not attempt any spying today, as my father and his men will no doubt be extra alert in the days to come. I must be content with what I accomplished yesterday, for I did accomplish much, I remind myself. I saved the duchess from d’Albret’s trap and got Tilde and Odette to safety. There are many weeks when I am not granted any such victories.

With a resigned sigh, I grab my embroidery basket. At least I will have something entertaining to occupy my mind: plotting how best to kill the two marqued barons. Smiling, I open my chamber door and nearly bump into—“Julian!” I say, all the joy I have been feeling crumbling to dust. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I come to wish you a good morning, fair sister.” He glances over at Jamette, who is making calf eyes at him. “We must speak privately for a moment, if you please.”

Looking disappointed, she curtsies, and before I can think of an excuse to keep her near, she is gone. “What is it?” I ask, my face a picture of concern.

Julian’s face is carefully blank. “Where were you last night?”

My heart thuds painfully against my ribs. “I was here in my room—where were you?”

He ignores my question. “Then why did you not answer when I knocked?”

“I took a sleeping draft for the vile headache I had.”

Julian’s face softens and he lifts his hand to tuck a strand of my hair in place. “I could have soothed away your headache, had I but known.”

With all my secrets that he keeps hanging in the balance, I smile up at him and tap him playfully on the chest. “Then next time, knock louder.”

When he smiles back, I know that he believes me. As he lifts my hand and places a lingering kiss upon it, I wonder—for the hundredth time—how on earth I let the convent talk me into returning to my family.

Chapter Five

AFTER A WEEK OF RAIN and being trapped inside the castle with d’Albret and his raging suspicions, we are all at our wits’ ends. I even more so than the others, for I have two kills I am eager to make, which is nearly impossible with so many underfoot.

Since I have had nothing but time on my hands, I have considered my options carefully. Sister Arnette believed that arming me was her greatest challenge, since so few of Death’s handmaidens have ever had to maintain such a deceptive role for so long. She gave me nearly a dozen knives, most of them long and thin and easily concealed. I have lost four of them along the way, having to leave them with their victims. I also have a thick gold bracelet that holds a garrote wire, but I have no crossbow or throwing rondelles, since they are too difficult to hide or explain away.

Since these barons are allies of my father, I must be subtle. If I leave a trail of murdered men behind me, d’Albret will turn his household upside down in search of the one responsible. A stabbing might be blamed on some soldierly quarrel or a thief in the night, but a garroting would never be. And two such incidents would make d’Albret suspicious and wary.

Although poison is my least favorite weapon, it is often the best choice when subtlety is required. Besides, with the plague having so recently come through Nantes, it will be easy enough to make it appear as if these men simply fell ill and died.

Getting the poison to them is more difficult than it should be. I cannot just slip it into their food, for they eat with the rest of the household, and as much as I dislike everyone here, I am not willing to poison them all. At least not yet.

I could place a candle filled with night whispers in each of their chambers, but there is a good chance some poor servant would light it for them and breathe its deadly fumes, and I have no wish to see more innocents die.

It might be possible to visit one of them bearing a flask of poisoned wine and promising seduction, but that would not work for them both. It would also be difficult to arrange, as Jamette sticks to me like a thorn in soft flesh. Julian, too, is watching me more closely than normal, ever since he found me up on the north tower.

Saint Arduinna’s snare then, but I will have to be careful in choosing which of their personal items to poison—I must be sure that only the intended victims will touch them.

In the end, it is Julliers who provides an answer to my problem. He is fastidious about his hands and has more gloves than I have gowns. I find it easy enough to leave the great hall early one night, slip into both barons’ rooms while they and their squires are at their dinners, and apply the poison to the insides of their hunting gloves. Still, it is a close thing, as I run into Jamette on my way back to the hall.

“Where have you been?” she asks.

“I went to the privy,” I tell her shortly. “Shall I invite you to come with me next time?”

She wrinkles her nose and falls into step beside me. The small jar of poison is a heavy weight in my pocket, one I would rather have taken back to my room as soon as possible. Instead, with Jamette’s discovering me, I have no choice but to return to the hall with the evidence of my crime still upon me.

Two days later, the rain finally lifts, and we are all eager to be out of the palace, which has begun to feel far too much like a prison. Julian, Pierre, and some of the barons, Julliers and Vienne among them, have arranged for a hunt, and it was not overly difficult to get myself and my ladies in waiting invited along. Of course, I do not need to be on the hunt in order for the poison to work, but I prefer to see a job through to its end.

Besides, I fear I shall go mad again if I do not get out of the castle, even for just a few hours.

The huntsman rides ahead, followed by the handlers and their dogs, who are churning and woofing and barking in their eagerness to be off the leash. I make certain to position myself near Julliers and Vienne but carefully avoid paying any attention to them lest someone should note my doing so.

Pierre had been hoping for a deer, but the huntsman was unable to find a trail. Which was perhaps good, since the ground is thick and muddy after more than a week of rain, and the horses could easily founder and risk breaking a leg if we were to chase deer. Instead, we will be hunting for small game, and so have brought our falcons.

My own sits on my wrist, her small leather hood with its bright red and blue feathers covering her eyes and keeping her calm amid the commotion. Julian gave her to me for my twelfth birthday. When I ran away to the convent, he watched over her for the full three years I was gone, as if knowing I’d be back. When I returned, she’d grown so used to him that at first she would go only to his wrist, not mine.

Just outside the city wall, my falcon grows agitated, turning her head from side to side and causing the tiny silver bells on her jesses to tinkle. We have reached the very place where the duchess’s men met their deaths but a handful of days ago, and I wonder if the sensitive creature can feel the lingering presence of death. The heartbreaking bellow of the last knight as he went down echoes in my ears, unnerving me.

“Is everything all right?”

I look up to find Julian has nudged his mount closer to mine.

I shoot him a glance, careful to hide my agitation and fill my expression with annoyance. “Other than half our party being fools? Yes, except for that, everything is fine.”

He smiles. “I am glad you decided to come. I should have expired of boredom otherwise. I might even have had to shoot one of the barons, just for entertainment. They would all be grateful if they knew that your presence has spared them such a fate.”

His words strike a chord of unease. Is he fishing? Does he suspect that I am behind the scattered deaths in our party over the last few months? I twist my mouth in a cruel smile. “Do not feel you must resist shooting them on my account. I could do with some entertainment as well.”

Julian laughs, a rich easy sound that does much to alleviate my concerns. “Watching Pierre seduce Baron Vienne’s wife out from under his nose should be amusing enough.”

I turn my gaze to Pierre. He is flirting outrageously with a buxom lady in vermilion velvet. I cannot help but wonder what she sees in him. He is thickly muscled and barrel-chested like our father, and he wears his black hair long and straight. His mouth is full and red, like a girl’s.

There is no love lost between Pierre and me. When he was twelve years old, he wanted to prove that he was no mere boy but a man full grown, and did so by forcing my first kiss on me when I was but nine years of age.

I was so startled by the kiss, so taken aback and affronted at this violation of my person, that I retaliated in the only way I knew how: I kissed him back. I didn’t simply return the kiss while his lips were already planted on my own. Instead, I waited until he was busy polishing our lord father’s armor, sauntered up to him as I had seen Marie the upstairs maid do to one of the men-at-arms, grabbed his smooth cheeks in my hands, and smacked him soundly on his lips.

The scar that adorns his left eyebrow is from where I whacked him with our father’s scabbard when he tried to force a second kiss.

But while I rarely have occasion to feel grateful to Pierre, today I do. If Pierre is courting Vienne’s wife, any suspicion over her husband’s death will fall on their shoulders rather than mine.

I turn to Julian with a sly smile. “How long will it take Baron Vienne to realize that Pierre is cuckolding him?”

Julian smiles back. “Not long, for Pierre will not truly enjoy himself until he can rub the baron’s nose in it.”

Since we are speaking of the baron, I allow my gaze to drift over to him and Julliers. I can feel the rapid beating of their hearts—as if two horses are galloping far in the distance, just beyond true hearing. Beads of sweat have begun to form on Julliers’s brow, but Vienne shows no signs of distress. He is heavier than Julliers and so will no doubt need to absorb more poison before his symptoms begin in earnest.

Before either Julian or I can say anything further, the huntsman sounds his horn. It is time to hunt.

I remove my falcon’s hood, and she fluffs her wings in readiness, her sharp, keen eye scanning the field. I launch her from my arm, painfully jealous of her freedom as she rises high in the sky, wheeling around once, twice, watching for her prey.

But I have prey of my own. Both the barons have grown ashen, and Julliers’s left arm hangs useless at his side. If he is experiencing numbness in his limbs, it will not be long now.

Then the huntsman sounds his horn again, and the hounds are off the leash, the teaming swarm of them racing toward the underbrush to flush out the game. A frantic thudding of wings follows as the startled partridge take flight.

Like heavy stones thrown from a trebuchet, the falcons drop from the sky and plummet toward their prey. A series of soft thumps follow.

But one falcon—mine—is still moving; a lone rabbit has also been flushed from the brush. The poor creature’s death squeal is harsh in the quiet of the forest, and every nerve in my body flares, for the noise made by a dying rabbit is shockingly similar to that produced by a dying man. As the falcon returns, I thrust out my arm and hold my breath, waiting to see whose wrist she will return to. When she lands on mine, I decide to take it as a fortuitous omen.

I glance once more at the two barons and wonder yet again why Mortain has marqued them for death but not d’Albret. Their sins and betrayals are small when weighed against his.

It would have me questioning Mortain’s very existence if I did not so desperately need to believe in Him, for if He is not my father, then d’Albret is, and that I could not bear.

Flushed with the pleasure of our morning’s hunt, we head back to the castle. Julliers has given his hawk to his groom to carry, and Vienne slumps drunkenly in his saddle. While I am glad that the poison is working, I feel a tinge of regret at not being able to use my knives. They offer a much quicker and cleaner end, and I have no appetite for the lingering deaths of soft, pampered barons.

Everyone is happy with the morning, except Jamette, whose little goshawk caught nothing but a vole. “It is a good thing we do not have to eat only what we catch,” I tease her.

She glares at me, which makes me laugh out loud.

We are nearly to the city walls when I feel something watching me. It is not Julian, for Jamette is busy trying to draw him into conversation. Nor is it Pierre, who has taken full advantage of Vienne’s poor health and is practically making love to his wife in plain sight of us all. I glance over my shoulder, but there is no one there.

I turn back in my saddle. Are the French troops close enough that they could have scouts nearby? Or did some of the Rennes garrison stay behind to keep an eye on d’Albret’s movements?

Or perhaps it is no living thing I sense but the soul of one of those men who died so violently on the battlefield.

I glance over my shoulder once more. When I do, a crow flutters from a far tree to a closer one. His left wing is crooked, as if it had once been broken.

Merde.

I whip back around in my saddle. It is my very own crow. The one Sister Widona had rescued and kept in a cage when I first arrived. She used the frightened, wounded creature to draw me out of the morass my own mind had fallen into. Without that crow, I might be there still.

The convent has sent me a message. It has been four long months since I last heard from them, and I had nearly given up hope that I ever would again. But now. Now there is a message. My spirits soar just like the falcons did moments ago. Perhaps old Sister Vereda has Seen what I could not—d’Albret’s death.

“You seem restless.” Julian’s voice yanks my mind from its daydreaming. The crow’s timing could not be worse.

“Not at all,” I say.

Ever jealous of the attention Julian pays me, Jamette sticks her long nose in. “Why is that crow following you?” she asks.

“You are deluded,” I scoff. “He is not following me. I think he is after the vole you caught.”

“No, no,” she says, and my hand itches to slap her silly face. “It is following you. Look!”

The crow flutters another tree closer.

“Tsk. Does not the lowly crow realize he is far beneath my sister’s notice? Here.” Julian moves his hand toward his falcon’s jesses. “I will dispatch the uncouth creature for you.”

“No!” I say, too sharply.

He cocks an eyebrow at me, and I give him a cool smile. “What am I to do with a crow? Put it in a pie with Jamette’s vole? Besides,” I add in a bored voice, “it is wounded, or deranged. No healthy crow would hover this close to falcons. And see how it holds its wing? Leave it be. Or,” I say, smiling in open challenge, “better yet, do try to catch it. That way I can beat you back to the castle.”

With that challenge thrown down, I put my heels to my horse and fly forward. A split second later, the others follow.

I even let Julian win.

When we reach the castle, I hand my falcon to the waiting groom, then dismount. My gaze scans the horizon for the crow, half fearing he will land on my shoulder in front of everyone. I must think of a way to get the message without half the castle seeing.

Jamette lingers near the stable, still trying to flirt with Julian, and Tephanie is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps I can steal a few moments in my room alone and coax the wretched creature to the window long enough to remove the message he carries. Leaving the others to their own amusements, I quit the courtyard and enter the palace, then head for the stairs.

No one follows. My luck holds, and when I reach my chamber, it is empty. I head straight for the window and open the casement—but there is no sign of the crow. I wait a few more moments, willing him to find me, then huff out a sigh of frustration. Just as I am about to close the window, I hear a caw and see a flap of black wings. But too late. I can hear Jamette and Tephanie at the chamber door. I slam the window shut and close the thick velvet curtains.

“What are you doing?” Jamette asks as she comes into the room. “Now it is too dark in here.”

I put my hand to my temple. “I have a headache,” I say crossly.

A look of genuine concern appears on Tephanie’s round face as she hurries over to my side. “Shall I fetch a tisane? Or lavender water?”

I could send them to fetch a tisane or hot wine, but that requires only one of them. Besides, Jamette will just linger in the hallway with her large ear stuck to the wall.

“You were fine but moments ago,” she points out.

I spear Jamette with a vicious look. “Was I really, Jamette? Were you paying close enough attention to know that?”

She flushes at this reminder of just how poorly she has attended me. Then I make a decision. “I am going outside.”

Jamette gapes at me. “But you have a headache!”

“Indeed I do. I believe it is your screeching voice and the vile perfume you favor, which is why I need fresh air.”

Her mouth closes with a snap, and I feel the smallest tweak of conscience, for her scent is fine. And then I remember that she reports every move of mine to my father, and my regret evaporates.

Outside, the day has grown blustery, the wind proving that February is indeed the whirling month. Just like the leaves and twigs that dance in eddies across the courtyard, hope dances deep inside me. Perhaps d’Albret is marqued in such a way that I cannot see it but Sister Vereda with her seeress skills can. The thought of finally being able to move against him fills me with a dark joy. If I am at last able to kill him, the duchess and kingdom will be safe from his grasping ambition and brutal ways. Perhaps I can even arrange for my sisters to come finish their schooling at the convent. Not to train them in the killing arts, but because most of what the nuns teach us is much like the education that any noblewoman receives. Then my sisters would be safe even from Pierre and Julian. Although I do not think Julian would ever hurt them. At least not intentionally.

The gardens are deserted, since no one else is fool enough to venture out to this raw, barren spot. I take a slow breath and revel in the solitude. I am forever attended by someone—my ladies in waiting, my brothers, the various hangers-on of my father’s court—and I crave solitude. That and freedom. I glance overhead and try to recapture that soaring feeling I had when my falcon launched from my wrist, but I cannot.

Instead, an irritable caw brings me back to earth as Monsieur Crow lands on a branch before me, then cocks his head, as if wondering why I have taken so long.

“You’re a fine one to talk,” I scold him, but he knows I do not mean it and hops close. As I move toward the branch, I see that the note is wrapped tightly around his ankle and covered with black wax so that someone would have to be very close in order to see he bore a message.

I slip my knife from its sheath, and the bird gives a caw of objection. “I have no other way to get it off, you silly creature.” A quick snip and a slice, then wax crumbles and I am able to unwind the note from his leg. As I shove it into the knife sheath at my wrist, the crow looks to me for a reward. “I have nothing for you today—I am sorry. Now go. Quickly! Before you get us both killed.” I flap my hands at him and he hops but one bush away. “Hsst!” I say, and with a caw of reproach, he launches into the sky and disappears over the castle wall.

“Talking to the crows, my lady?”

Bertrand de Lur’s deep voice nearly causes me to jump. Instead, I use the startled movement to swing gracefully around and face him.

“That will earn you a reputation of witchcraft,” he says.

I tilt my head and smile mockingly at him. “Do they not say that already?”

He inclines his head, conceding the point. “Even so, it is not safe for you to be out here alone, my lady.” While his voice is rich and cultivated, there is something about the way he says my lady that makes the words feel like a slur. Or perhaps it just seems that way because his lust is so thick it reaches out and enfolds me like a mantle. How long has he felt this way?

“Where are your attendants?” he asks, his voice hard.

Even though I do not care for Jamette, I cannot surrender her to the threat I see lurking in his eyes. “I ordered them from my side. I have a headache and wanted fresh air.”

He glances around at the secluded section of garden, his eyes missing nothing. “I would think my lady’s beauty would attract a nightingale or a linnet, not a bedraggled crow.” He steps closer then, and for the first time I grow wary. Does he think me such damaged goods that he can take liberties without fear of reprisal from my father?

“It is not safe to be alone out here, not with all the men-at-arms we have posted. Any one of them might come upon you and be moved to take advantage of your unattended solitude.” He takes another step toward me.

Because I want to back away from him, I force myself to move forward until there is but a handbreadth between us. I gaze steadily into eyes. “Do you really think any of the men would be so foolish as to risk my father’s wrath in such a way? Surely they would not wish to see their guts strung up from the castle walls?”

There is a long moment of silence, then finally he nods. “Your point is well taken, my lady. Come, I am to escort you to your lord father.”

A cold trickle of fear slides into my belly. “Did my lord father say what he wished of me?” I hate myself for asking, for it shows my weakness, but I cannot help it. It is never wise to wander into d’Albret’s lair unprepared.

“He did not share his purpose with me, no.”

But he knows. I can see that knowledge in his eyes, and he looks for all the world as if he is gloating. I remember the convent’s order concealed in my sheath and permit myself a small secret smile as he takes my arm and we begin walking back to the palace.

The trip to d’Albret’s chambers lasts forever and puts me in mind of how a man approaching the gallows must feel. How long was de Lur watching me before he made his presence known? Did it appear to him as if I was just shooing away a crow, or feeding it, mayhap? Or did he see me take the message from the creature’s leg?

And what of d’Albret? Has he found some reason to tie me to the duchess’s escape? I was so careful. So very, very careful. I must continue to do everything in my power to assure him that I am committed to his cause so that he does not have his guard up when I am at last able to act. To force my mind away from its ceaseless worry, I anticipate all the ways I could kill d’Albret. It would be so satisfying to choke the life from him with a garrote around his fat neck. Or fillet his big white belly like a fish. But there is danger in those methods, for they require I get close to him, and he has uncanny strength and could possibly overpower me. Poison or a crossbow would be safest.

Too soon, we reach our destination, and Captain de Lur announces my arrival. Holding my head high and willing my heart to stop its wild, erratic beating, I step into the room.