Текст книги "Dark Triumph"

Автор книги: Robin LaFevers

Соавторы: Robin LaFevers
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter Eight

WHEN I COME AWAKE IN the morning, my first thought is of the knight the abbess wishes me to free. His anguished bellow of defeat as he was struck down haunted my dreams.

Even at the convent, we had heard of the mighty Beast of Waroch and of how his ability to rally his countrymen—noblemen and peasant alike—to the duke’s cause allowed us to win our past three battles.

As I listen to Tephanie’s gentle snoring, I wonder why the fallen knight has so captured my imagination. Was it because he fought so valiantly against such overwhelming odds? Because of his dedication to his young duchess? Or simply because I looked into his eyes just before he died?

For he is dead. I saw him struck down with my own . . . ah, but Julian arrived just then. I never saw the knight’s lifeless body. And it is said that men in the throes of battle lust can suffer much damage, yet live.

When I went to bed last night, I vowed to ignore the abbess’s message. But now, now all I can think of is that noble knight rotting—or worse—in d’Albret’s dungeon.

I place one of my cold feet on Tephanie and she stirs at last—the great slug. She blinks twice to clear the confusion from her eyes, then remembers where she is and with whom. “My lady! I beg your forgiveness. I have overslept.”

“Did you know that you snore?” I say, amused at the bright spots of red that stain her cheeks.

She looks away. “I am sorry—you should have shoved me from the bed or awakened me in some fashion.”

“I did not say it disturbed me, only that you did it.”

She does not know what to say to this, so she leaps out of bed, curtsies, then hurries to fetch my chamber robe.

Just as she is about to help me into it, Jamette enters the room babbling like a brook. “Barons Vienne and Julliers were found dead in their chambers this morning—” Her mouth snaps shut when she finds us standing together in nothing but our shifts.

She blinks, her mouth opening then closing as she searches for something to say. Because she annoys me so very much, I reach out, place a finger under Tephanie’s chin, and turn her head gently toward me. “Thank you, Tephanie,” I say. “For everything.” Tephanie’s cheeks turn a dull red, and I almost laugh and spoil the effect I have so carefully created.

Poor Jamette cannot decide if she is shocked or jealous. “So, who are these barons whose chambers you visited last night?” I ask languorously.

“Not me,” she snaps. “It was the servants who reported they died of the plague in their sleep.”

“Could you bring the water? I’d like to wash now,” I say with a sleepy yawn.

“Do you think we will catch it?” Tephanie asks. “The plague, I mean?”

The look Jamette sends Tephanie is so full of venom I am surprised the other girl does not wilt on the spot. She does look acutely embarrassed, however, and hurries away to finish dressing in the privacy of the garderobe.

Jamette’s temper makes her careless, and she splashes water everywhere. “Watch what you are doing,” I warn her. “Else I will have you clean it up with that sharp tongue of yours.”

Our eyes meet, and I can see all the insults and accusations she wishes to hurl at me. Instead of saying them, she mutters to herself, “At least now I know why she ignores the few men who cast their attention her way.”

I run my finger along Jamette’s arm. “Do not tell me you are jealous, little one?” I have found an entirely new way to get under Jamette’s skin and anticipate hours of fine sport.

She pulls her arm away. “Of course not!” She turns and moves across the room to the clothespress. “Which gown do you want today?”

“The dark gray satin with the black underskirt.”

She helps me dress, but her movements are stiff, and she touches me as little as possible. When she laces up my bodice, she pulls so hard she nearly cracks my ribs.

I jerk away and grab her hand. “Careful. Your duties are to attend me, not cause me bodily damage.”

She glares at me, and I can feel her temper humming in her veins. Tephanie chooses that moment to come stumbling back into the room, slipping her belt into place and affixing to it the small knife I gave her.

“Enough of this,” I say. “I have in mind something more entertaining for us this morning.” D’Albret and most of the garrison plan to go to Ancenis today to take back Marshal Rieux’s holding from the French. Which means it is a perfect day for ferreting out secrets. “Where did you say the sounds of ghosts were coming from? I would like to hear them for myself.”

For while ghosts do not make noise, prisoners do.

It turns out that the ghosts are rumored to haunt the old tower, the very place from which I watched the battle. It is also the most logical place to keep a prisoner, since it is well away from the living quarters and the high-traffic areas of the castle.

Neither of my attendants wishes to come face to face with ghosts and they both decide to wait for me in the chapel right next to the tower and pray for the newly dead barons. That suits my purposes perfectly, as I would much rather do my snooping away from their prying eyes.

The old tower was built nearly two hundred years ago. The stones are roughened with age, and the tower roof is in need of repair. I try the heavy wooden door and find it locked.

My heart quickens in excitement, for it was not locked when I was last here.

There is no guard posted so I peer through one of the arrow slits cut into the thick walls. The tower is haunted; I can feel the ghosts’ chill presence seeping out from the window—but ghosts do not clank, or make any sound at all.

I glance over my shoulder at the courtyard. There are just enough servants and men-at-arms about that I do not dare pick the lock.

Ignoring the ghostly chill, I search for some sense of a heartbeat within, but try as hard as I might, my power to detect such things cannot penetrate twelve feet of thick stone. I climb the winding, external staircase to the catwalk, then stand on tiptoe to peer in through another arrow slit.

The small shaft of light barely touches the gloom. I do not see anyone. No guard, no prisoner, no signs of life.

But wait. Some faint hint of sound wafts up—as if from the bowels of the earth itself—followed by a groan. Or a whisper. Or mayhap it is the wind. But since it is all I have to go on, I call it moaning. And even though it is so very little, it heartens me. I will have to find a way to pick the lock or steal the key when my actions can be hidden by darkness. The task is still impossible—but if I must sit here and do nothing while waiting for orders that are not coming, I shall no doubt go mad. Again.

Besides, I would like to think I am capable of doing something other than killing and acting the whore.

When I return to the chapel to collect the others, I find Tephanie alone, kneeling before the nave. Under the crucifix at the front of the church are nine small niches, each holding an image of one of the nine old saints: Saint Mortain; Dea Matrona and her daughters, Amourna and Arduinna; Saint Mer; Saint Camulos; Saint Cissonius; and, one of my personal favorites, Saint Salonius, the patron saint of mistakes.

I briefly wonder if I should leave an offering for Mortain. Does He suspect that my belief is a shallow thing? A small, flimsy protection against the more terrifying idea that He does not exist at all? What would I ask of Him, anyway?

Deliverance. That is what I would pray for.

Dear Mortain, please deliver me from this dark nightmare from which I can find no escape.

And then I snort, startling poor Tephanie. I have uttered that very prayer for nearly six long months, and look what it has gotten me. No, the truth is, Mortain has forsaken me. Either that or He does not exist.

But if that is the case, then d’Albret is my father. It is more comforting to think that Mortain has forsaken me.

Chapter Nine

WITH ALL THE MEN OFF harrying the French at Ancenis, the ladies of d’Albret’s household take dinner in the winter parlor instead of the great hall. It is a smaller room, and more intimate. And considerably warmer.

Madame Dinan takes great pride in her role as chatelaine, standing at the head of the table and waiting for everyone to arrive. That I am nearly late earns me a scowl of disapproval, but I pay no attention to that. Instead, my gaze falls on the thick ring of keys she wears at her waist.

D’Albret’s keys.

I tear my eyes away before she can notice my interest and spend the rest of dinner gossiping with the other ladies. But throughout the entire meal, my thoughts keep returning to those keys and how very much easier it would be to conduct my search of the tower before d’Albret’s return.

I wait a full hour for everyone to be abed. While I wait, I open my jeweled casket where I keep the few items I brought with me from the convent. Sister Serafina saw to it that I had a decent supply of poison, all of it artfully disguised. There is a crystal vial that contains what looks like the same belladonna that all the women use to make their eyes lustrous, but mine is far more potent. I have a small gold box filled with arsenic powder, and a jar of Saint Arduinna’s snare disguised as a salve for burns. There is also a hairnet spun of gold and decorated with dozens of white pearls, each one filled with a poison called vengeance.

I remove a paper twist filled with the fine white powder Sister Serafina calls night whispers. A full packet is enough to kill a large man. Half of that will put a woman down. Only a pinch is required to assure that Madame Dinan sleeps through the night.

I tuck the small packet into the knife sheath I wear at my wrist, then hunt for the boots that the convent had made especially for me. They are of the softest leather and allow me to move as silently as a shadow. I leave the safety of my room and head for Madame Dinan’s chamber.

Once, when I was ten years old, d’Albret became so enraged at his favorite hunting hound for not bringing down a twelve-point stag that he shot the creature with his hunting bow. After a brief yelp of pain, the loyal beast began dragging himself toward d’Albret, the arrow embedded in his hindquarters, whining softly in his throat and begging forgiveness. D’Albret finally relented and delivered a second shot that put him out of his misery.

With disgust, I realize that I am precisely like that hound: even when the convent has wounded me deeply, I still doggedly do the sisters’ bidding.

No, I remind myself. I am doing this not for the convent, but for the knight. The man’s loyalty and determination in the face of such overwhelming odds is the most noble thing I have ever seen. If he lives, he deserves a much better fate than the one he will find in d’Albret’s dungeon.

When I reach Dinan’s room, I pause and put my ear to the door, relieved to hear only one pulse beating inside.

The hinges are well oiled and make no noise as I open the door. Once inside, I creep across the floor to the bed and carefully ease the thick velvet curtains apart. When Madame Dinan does not so much as stir, I take the twist of paper from its hiding place, remove a pinch of the night whispers, and silently blow it at her face. Moving quickly so I do not breathe any of the deadly powder, I yank the bed curtains shut.

The next few moments drag by, as there is nothing to do but stand there and wait for the poison to take effect. Eventually her breathing grows deeper. When she begins to snore faintly, I know the powder has done its work.

Next I go to the windows and part the thick drapes to let in just enough moonlight to illuminate my search. Luckily, d’Albret’s keys are not hidden but sit in plain sight on a small carved table near the bed. It would be quickest to take the entire ring, but I do not know what I shall find or how long I will be. Smarter to take only the key I need in case she wakes before I return.

Keeping the keys pressed against my palm so they do not rattle or clank, I search for the most likely one. Nearly all of the keys are shiny and new, like the palace itself, but there is one that is old and made of iron. It is larger than the others and coated in rust that looks like dark blood in the moonlight. Certain it is the key I seek, I remove it, then set the others back on the table. I return to the window, close the curtains so the room is once more in full darkness, and quit the chamber.

I move lightly, almost holding my breath, as I creep down the hallway and descend the stairs to the main floor. I do not allow myself a sigh of relief until I have reached the door that leads to the courtyard. Even then, I force myself to wait long, precious minutes so I can be certain no guards are patrolling at regular intervals. Only then do I step outside.

Silence fills the courtyard like a thick wine fills a cup, and the white stone of the palace walls glow eerily in the moonlight. I dart forward, skirting the large staircase and cursing all that whiteness that casts my dark figure in harsh relief. My blood thrums through my veins and every muscle in my body is taut with nerves. The urgent need for caution tingles on the back of my tongue, as if I have drunk some brew of bubbling silver.

But in the end, there is nothing to fear. Nearly all the soldiers have gone with d’Albret to Ancenis, and all the servants have been so thoroughly terrorized that there is little need for guards or sentries.

When I reach the tower door, there is a cold, dark fluttering sensation, as if I have disturbed a nest of unseen bats, but the flutterings are too big—and too cold—for something as alive as bats, and too silent for owls. Their cold seeps into me and the chill of them causes my hand to shake so much that it takes me three tries before I am able to fit the key into the lock.

The door hinges, which should creak with age and rust, are as silent as moth wings. I slip inside and shut the door behind me.

In the faint moonlight shining in through the arrow slit, the dark shadows flutter and float gently through the air. Those that are not huddling next to me are drifting downward. Down it is, then, for ghosts are ever attracted to the warmth and comfort of life.

The stairs descend in a tight circle, and I put my hands on the wall to guide me. It would not do to fall and break my neck. The stone is rougher here and wet with dampness from the nearby river, the steps crumbled slightly with age.

At the foot of the stairs is another locked door. Merde! I should have brought all of the keys with me! But no, this key fits the second door as well. My teeth threaten to chatter and I pretend it is the chill and not my fear as I turn the key and slowly open the door.

It is the smell that reaches me first. A rank mixture of mold and mildew, old blood and human filth. I brace myself for the worst, but I find only an antechamber. On the far side is yet another door, this one with a high window covered in narrow iron bars. Faint light flickers from within. Quiet as one of the ghosts who trail after me, I cross the small space.

When I reach the third door, I press myself against the wall so I cannot be seen through the bars. I wait for a dozen heartbeats, but no one comes.

Slowly, with my heart hammering against my ribs, I inch to the grille and peer inside.

A lone torch casts a faint light into the dark chamber, and shadows bounce and flicker against the stone wall. Someone is moving about and making strange formless noises to himself. In truth, it looks like a small gnome or dwarf from a hearth tale, but then I see it is simply a man who is gnarled and bent over. At first I think he is chortling and dancing, and then I realize that he is lame in one leg and that is merely how he shuffles across the chamber. And the chortling is chewing—he is gnawing on a stale crust of bread. Disgusted, I tear my eyes from him and survey the rest of the room. An ale pot, a chamber pot, a wooden ledge for sleeping and sitting. And another be-damned door sits in the far wall.

I pull away, back against the wall once more. Is that all that is keeping this knight imprisoned? Four locked doors—at least two of which have the same key—and a decrepit old man? Is the prisoner even still alive? I wonder, and then I scoff at the stupidity of my own question. Of course he is still alive, for they would not set a guard—not even one such as the little gargoyle in there—to watch over a corpse.

Unless they wanted to be certain no one found out he was dead.

Holding my breath, I let my senses explore the locked room. I feel the twisted little man’s heart beating strong and steady. Coming from beyond the door, fainter and slower, is the beat of a second pulse. The knight is alive, at least for now.

Almost as if he feels my mind searching out his, the prisoner groans.

The little guard shuffles over to the prisoner’s door and makes some guttural noise through the grille. The prisoner groans louder, and the sound is followed by the rattle of heavy chains. He is manacled, then, and his chains are the origin of the rumors of ghosts.

I stay and watch for a while longer, trying to get a feel for the guard’s rhythm: when he sleeps, and how deeply, and if he ever leaves. But he does not. He pisses in a pot in the far corner. There is a small pile of stores against the east wall, a keg of ale. He pauses to grunt at the prisoner now and then, but whether it is an encouragement or a taunt, I cannot tell. When I have tarried as long as I dare, I inch away from the door. It would not do to grow careless now and kick a stone or shuffle my feet. As I begin making my way up the stairs, I decide it has been a decent enough night’s work. I know where the knight is, that he is alive, and how he is guarded.

What I do not know is how I will get him out of there without getting us both killed in the process.

Chapter Ten

WHEN I RETURN TO MY chamber, instead of crawling into bed, I go to the table and take two fat white candles from their holders. I shove one on the end of the poker near the fireplace, then hold the poker next to the flames. It is tricky, as I do not want the candle to drip away, only to soften enough that I can mold and shape it. When I judge it ready, I pull it from the heat. Working quickly before it cools, I shove the tower key into the soft wax, pushing so that it makes a deep impression. I soften the second candle in the same way, then press it down on top of the first.

Once that is done, I use a knife to whittle away all the extra wax so that my mold is as small as possible. I toss the shavings into the fire and hide the wax casting in one of my velvet jewelry pouches.

It is a long, tense walk back to Madame Dinan’s chamber, but as I go, a plan begins to form, as fragile and tenuous as a spider’s web.

I have followed the convent and Mortain’s wishes so far, and it has brought nothing but tragedy. Even worse, d’Albret is still alive and spewing his evil across the land. It is long past time for me to fulfill the role the abbess had planned for me, with or without her orders. I will kill him, marque or no.

But I will attempt to free the prisoner first. If, as I suspect, he is too wounded and broken to make the trip to Rennes, I will grant him a small mercy and put him out of his misery, for certainly that is what I would wish for if it were me.

I will not even make him beg.

In the morning, I convince Tephanie and Jamette that we must go into town. I cannot march up to a blacksmith and demand he make me a key without raising a host of questions. So instead, I tell my attendants that I must find a silversmith to repair one of my favorite belts. Jamette wants to know why, if it is one of my favorites, she has never seen it before. Tephanie comes to my rescue. “Because it is broken, you ninny!” She is as excited as a young child at the thought of an outing and begins chattering about the monkey one of the soldiers saw in town.

Even though impatience makes me want to hurry, because of Jamette and our escort of guards, I force myself to browse the stalls. I stop to rub some bright red satin between my fingers and admire the thick rich nap in a piece of green velvet. Smelling money, the shopkeepers cluster around us like flies on a drop of honey. I flirt and pretend I am seriously considering a bolt of blue damask. All the while, Jamette watches me far too closely, as if memorizing every move I make, every word that comes from my lips. I half expect her to pull a scrap of parchment from her sleeve and begin making notes, and I have no doubt she would, if she could write.

At last we come to the street of silversmiths, the faint sound of the rapid tapping of their hammers as distinct as a hailstorm. I pretend to shop for a silver bauble, but I am actually searching for a smith who looks stouthearted and trustworthy and not inclined to run tattling to the castle in the hopes of currying favor with the new lord. I find just such a man—or so I hope—at the third shop we visit.

The silversmith puts down his hammer as we approach and comes forward with a bow. He is of middle years with a stolid face and strong hands that are roughened with a lifetime of scars from the hot metals he works with and silver dust is worked into the creases of his skin. A woman who has been sweeping the workroom—his wife, no doubt—hurries to join him.

As the smith draws closer, he glances at the men behind us. His look of pleasant greeting turns into one of guarded suspicion as he recognizes the standard and colors of the house of d’Albret emblazoned on our escorts’ tabards. His wife nudges him with her elbow and keeps her pleasant smile firmly in place.

“How may we serve you, my lady?” The smith’s cold, distant voice is at odds with his words.

“I have a belt that has broken a link, but it is of gold. Do you work in gold?”

“I do,” he says slowly, as if reluctant to admit such a thing if it will cause me to tarry at his shop.

The woman is less reluctant. “Gold is too valuable to put on display, my lady, but my husband’s skill is equal to any smith’s in the city.” The sure, quiet pride with which she says this moves me in some way I cannot explain.

The smith, however, sends her an aggrieved look, and that is when I know he wishes we would go elsewhere. Which makes him imminently suitable for the job I have in mind. “May I see the work, then?” I ask.

“Certainly, my lady. Let me fetch a tray.”

I hold up a hand. “Wait. I wish to see the work area before I decide. I will not leave my valuables in a pigsty.”

The good wife bristles at this, but opens the half door to the workroom and curtsies.

“I will be right back,” I tell the others.

The smith and I move to the farthest workbench, and the wife excuses herself to fetch a tray of her husband’s best work. I hand the man my belt. As his practiced eye and sure hands move over the piece, probing it for weak links or breaks, I maneuver myself so that I am standing with my body blocking what we are doing. The smith frowns up at me. “There is nothing wrong with—”

“Shhh,” I say quietly. I step closer to him, as if I am looking at something he is showing me. “That is not my true commission for you. I have a key that needs copying.” I slip the velvet pouch out of the larger purse at my belt and hand the small blocks of wax to him. Keeping one eye on me, he opens the pouch to see the impressions of the key. “My lady, I am no blacksmith—”

I smile and say sharply, “Do you not think I can read the sign above your shop? This key is a gift for someone. Someone special.” I smile coyly so that his mind goes precisely where I want it to. He frowns in disapproval and opens his mouth to refuse, but I pull a second, smaller pouch from my purse. “I will make the job—and your silence—worth your while.”

Just then, his wife comes back with a tray of finely worked gold belts, circlets, intricately carved cups, and paternosters. When she sees the bag, her face lights up. I hand her the pouch before the smith can refuse the job, knowing that once she closes her hand around those coins, she, like any good housewife, will not let them go.

“Oh, and one other thing,” I say, as if just remembering.

The smith looks at me, clearly vexed and wishing I would take myself far away from him and his shop. “I will be back in three hours for the . . . belt.”

“My lady!” he protests. “That is not nearly enough time.”

“Ah, but you will make the time, will you not?” Our gazes meet.

“But of course, my lady. I will make the time.”

We spend the rest of the day wandering around the shops of Nantes. Jamette buys a rose-colored ribbon and a gold-braided cord for her hair, a cord I cannot help but daydream of strangling her with. Tephanie looks at everything with hungry eyes, like a starved child, and I end up buying her a pretty comb for her hair. I assure myself it is only to make Jamette jealous.

Three hours later, the bells of Nantes cathedral call everyone to afternoon prayers. Even Jamette has worn out her penchant for shopping, and the guards’ eyes are rolling back in their heads from boredom, so we return to the silversmith’s.

He and his wife are waiting for us, and the look she gives me now is full of censure and reserve. The smith says nothing, no doubt counting the minutes until he can be rid of me. Once again, I am careful to stand with my body blocking the view of his workbench. “Is my belt ready?” I ask in a bright voice.

“Just as you asked, my lady.” He gives me the small velvet pouch at the same time he gives me the belt. The pouch is still warm from the hot metal of the newly made key. As I take them from his hand, my fingers grasp his. I pause. “If you speak of this to anyone, my life—and yours—will not be worth the ashes in your hearth.”

His eyes meet mine and then turn away. “And well I know it,” he mutters. “For that is no bedroom key.” He starts to pull his hand back, but I grip it tighter.

I do not know why, but I am filled with an urgent need to have this simple, honest man know that I am capable of decency. “Not everyone in the palace supports the baron.” I let all my artifice fall away so he may see the truth behind my words.

He studies me carefully a moment, then nods once in understanding.

“Thank you.” I give him a genuine smile this time and squeeze his hand. He blinks. “I will not jeopardize you or your family again, I swear it.”

Relief washes over his face, and I slip the key into the purse at my waist and leave.