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.