Home > Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(28)

Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(28)
Author: Robin LaFevers

The jailor motions to me—to my face. There is a softness in his gaze that I do not understand. He motions again and I put my hand up to my cheek. It is wet. I glare at him as I scrub the dampness away. “If you cannot be bothered to bestir yourself on her behalf, he will maul her with his rough, hairy hands, violate her flesh—”

With a roar that startles a bray from one of the waiting donkeys, the knight pushes himself from the wall and lurches forward. The little jailor tries to steer his lumbering charge to the cart, but the knight resists, instead lunging toward me. Startled, I look up and our eyes meet. His are a pale, silver blue, I realize, just before his fist connects with my jaw and everything goes black.

Chapter Fifteen

I SLOWLY BECOME AWARE THAT I am dreaming, for I feel as safe and snug as a babe in a cradle. Or perhaps a babe in a boat, bobbing in the sea.

A very bumpy sea, I amend, as a jarring thud rattles my entire body. I try to open my eyes, but it is as if they’ve been sewn shut. When I finally wrench them open, all I can see is a dark sky filled with fading stars.

Where in the names of the Nine Saints am I?

I try to think, shuffling back through my memories like a banker though stacks of coin. The knight. I was getting him to the cart and then . . . what? Filled with a trickle of foreboding, I struggle to sit up. The movement has my stomach roiling like a nest of eels. Just in time, I lean over the side and retch miserably.

When I have finished with that, the throbbing in my head lessens enough that I can begin to make sense of my surroundings. A strong smell of manure fills my nose, making me think of retching again, and I see a jaunty yellow flag flapping in the night breeze.

Frantic, I glance around. The knight lies still and lifeless beside me as we jolt and bump along the road. There are no houses, no shops, no city walls anywhere. There is nothing but gently rolling countryside and farmsteads as far as my eye can see.

I am in the be-damned cart! The knight . . . he hit me. Knocked me out cold with his great ham-shaped fist and, for some reason, he—and the jailor—have brought me with them.

No. No! I look around once again to try to get my bearings. How long have I been out? Moments? Hours? More important, how far away are we from Nantes? Perhaps it is not too late to go back.

But no matter how hard I squint and peer, I cannot see the walls of the city. Which means all my plans—and my hard-won resolve—have turned to ash. The giant ogre beside me has given Fortune’s wheel such a hard turn that it has spun out of my grasp entirely.

The prisoner next to me does not so much as stir at the vile oath that flies from my mouth, but the jailor, who is driving, looks over his shoulder and tips his cap. That cheerful gesture infuriates me further and I scramble to my feet, ignoring the wave of nausea that follows. As we hit a bump in the road, I nearly tumble out. Grabbing the back of the bench, I clamber gracelessly into the front next to the jailor, then wait for the dizziness to pass before I begin railing at him. “What have you done?” I finally manage to get out. “I was not supposed to come with you! You have ruined everything!”

The little gnome shrugs and points his thumb at the unconscious knight.

I glance at the hulking form laid out in the wagon bed. How dare he? What addlepated thought crossed his fevered brain and caused him to bring me with them? I want to leap into the back of the cart and pound my frustration out on his thick, misbegotten hide. Instead, I curl my hands into fists, press my nails into my palms, and hope the pain of it will clear my head. To have been denied my desire to wreak vengeance upon d’Albret for so long, only to have it snatched away when it is finally in my grasp, is nearly unbearable. It is all I can do not to put my head back and roar out my fury at God and all His saints.

Then suddenly, like a kettle boiled dry, my anger is gone and I am left feeling as empty and hollow as a drum. My one chance, the one I have waited months—no, years!—for, has been irrevocably lost. Never again will I be in such a position to exact vengeance on d’Albret.

Never again. The words rattle around in my head like two stones in a bucket.

But that also means I cannot go back—cannot be sent back—for even the cold-hearted abbess will recognize how impossible it would be for me to earn d’Albret’s trust again.

Which means . . . I have escaped.

I try to think. In all my seventeen years, have I ever known anything—anyone—to escape d’Albret? Not his wives, nor his children, nor his enemies. Only the duchess, and she did so twice, once in Guérande and the second time almost a fortnight ago.

While it makes sense that the gods would bestir themselves for the duchess, I cannot believe they would bestir themselves for me. They never have before.

Escape. The word is as ripe and seductive as summer’s first fruit, so much so that I must shy away from it and remind myself that hope is but the god’s way of mocking us, nothing more.

I give myself a moment, then another, to compose myself, then turn to the jailor beside me. I pretend I have not stormed and railed and fumed for the last mile and ask calmly, “How is our charge?”

Relief crosses his wrinkled little face, and he gives an enthusiastic nod of his head. I glance over my shoulder, uncertain the knight’s condition warrants such enthusiasm, but say nothing. With all my other options scuttled, it seems my best course of action is to get the knight to Rennes. Alive, if possible.

And with that thought comes a reminder. None of it will matter a whit if d’Albret finds us, for even now he is likely gathering forces for pursuit. Luckily, all of his soldiers will be groggy and ill for a few more hours yet, and I do not think he will ride out himself.

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crows. Soon, sleepy farmers will stumble out of their cottages and begin tilling their fields. And see us. We cannot risk that. “We must find shelter,” I tell the jailor.

He nods sagely, as if he has already thought of this.

“There will be pursuit,” I warn him. “So our shelter needs to be well hidden from the road.” What has taken us all night to travel could be covered in a matter of hours by one of my father’s men on a swift strong horse.

The jailor nods again, points to a copse of trees in the distance, then steers the cart in that direction.

I study his crooked, lined face. Can I trust him? For the hundredth time I wonder at the strange relationship between the knight and his jailor. Does the Beast of Waroch command courage and loyalty even from those who guard him? For surely my father assigned only the most loyal of his men to tend to his valuable prisoner, and yet the jailor not only did not try to prevent our escape but joined us.

   
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