“No, he will not. And the rest of us will pay the price.” I look at him as if just now noticing he is not dressed for battle. “Why are you not on the field with the others?”
“I was ordered to stay behind.”
A brief spasm of fear clutches my heart. Is d’Albret having me watched so very closely, then?
Julian offers me his arm. “We need to get back to the hall before he returns.”
I dimple at him and cozy up to his arm, letting it almost but not quite brush against my breast. It is the one power I have over him—doling out favors just often enough that he does not need to grab for them.
As we reach the tower door, Julian glances back over his shoulder at the battlement then turns his unreadable gaze on me. “I will not tell anyone that you were up here,” he says.
I shrug, as if it is of no difference to me. Even so, I fear he will make me pay for this kindness of his.
Already I regret not jumping while I had the chance.
Chapter Two
I HURRY ALONGSIDE JULIAN, REFUSING to let my mind pick and fret at possibilities. I hold my head high, my scorn of those around me plain on my face. In truth, it is no act, for I loathe nearly everyone here, from d’Albret’s courtiers and attendants to the spineless Breton lordlings who showed no resistance when he seized their duchess’s castle for his own. Craven, lickspittle lackeys, the lot of them.
Julian pauses just outside the great hall, waits for a small cluster of retainers to pass, then slips in behind them, minimizing the chances that our entrance will be noted. And while I am glad he is committed to keeping my secret, I can only wonder what payment he will demand for doing so.
Inside the hall, quiet servants hurry to and fro, carrying flagons of wine, stoking the fire, trying to anticipate every need before they can be scolded or punished for not seeing to it quickly enough. Small knots of people are scattered throughout the hall, talking furtively among themselves. Clearly, word has reached them that d’Albret’s gambit has failed and he will not be returning in triumph.
The only person in the hall who does not have the good sense to cloak himself in caution is the idiot Marshal Rieux. He paces before the fireplace, railing at Madame Dinan that d’Albret has destroyed his honor by springing a trap while under Rieux’s flag of truce. He is a fine one to talk about honor as he was the duchess’s own tutor and guardian—up until the day he betrayed her and joined forces with d’Albret, certain their combined might would convince the young duchess she had no choice but to do what they wished.
But she surprised them all.
There is a deafening clatter of hooves out in the courtyard as the men return, followed by the sound of soldierly chaos—the rattle of discarded weapons, the creak of leather, the clang of mail and armor. Usually, there are shouts of victory and coarse laughter, but not today. Today the men are eerily silent.
There is a thud as a door is flung open. Quick, heavy footsteps stride down the hall accompanied by the jingle of spurs. The entire room—even Rieux—falls quiet as we await the approaching storm. Servants make themselves scarce, and a few of the more cowardly retainers find excuses to leave the hall.
The desire to be elsewhere is overwhelming. It is all I can do to keep my feet anchored to the floor and not turn on my heel and run back up the stairs to the safety of the upper chambers. But my very guilt requires that I stay and show d’Albret that I have nothing to hide. Instead of fleeing as I wish, I lean toward Julian’s ear. “Do you think Madame Dinan and Marshal Rieux are lovers?”
Even though Julian smiles in amusement, he also gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. I frown in annoyance and shrug my arm away from him. He knows me too well. Far, far too well.
And then the force of d’Albret’s presence is upon us, swirling into the room with all the heat and destruction of a firestorm. With him comes the stench of blood and mud and sweat. His face is white with fury, making his beard look all the more unnaturally black. Close on his heels is his main henchman, Bertrand de Lur, captain of the guard, followed by a dozen lords and retainers. Two of them, Barons Julliers and Vienne, were the duchess’s own vassals, but they were so eager to prove their loyalty to d’Albret that they agreed to ride with him to set this trap, even though they knew full well what he had in mind for their liege.
It therefore brings me a great joy to see that Mortain has marqued them both for death—each has a dark shadowy smear across his brow. Between that and the duchess getting away, this day has not turned out half bad.
“Why are you smiling?” Julian asks.
I pull my gaze away from the two men. “Because this should prove most entertaining,” I murmur, just before d’Albret’s voice cracks through the hall like a whip. “Get men up in all the towers. See if anyone is there who shouldn’t be. If a warning was sent, it most likely came from the north tower.”
I press my back against the wall and wish the nuns had taught us a cantrip to call down invisibility.
“Bring Pierre to me!” d’Albret continues. “His charge from the west gate should have come sooner. His laziness may well have cost me my prize.” He thrusts his hands out, and his squire darts forward and removes his right gauntlet. Before the boy can take off the left, d’Albret turns to shout another order. The squire leaps back out of reach and waits warily, afraid to draw closer but even more afraid of not being there when needed. “I also want a detail of men to ride after the duchess and report on her movements and the forces protecting her. If a chance presents itself to snatch her, do it. Any man who brings her to me will find himself richly rewarded.”
As de Lur repeats these orders to his men, a second squire hovers nearby, ready to place a goblet of wine in d’Albret’s hand before he has to ask. Without looking, d’Albret reaches for it, then we all wait in pinprick anticipation while he slakes his thirst. Madame Dinan steps forward as if to calm him, then thinks better of it.
When the count has drained the goblet, he stares at it a long moment, then hurls it into the fireplace. The violent shatter of crystal echoes in the quiet hall. Slowly, he turns back to the room, wielding the silence with as much skill and cunning as he does his sword, letting it grow until it is stretched tighter than a drum skin. “How did the soldiers from Rennes manage to arrive just then, hmm?” His voice is deceptively soft and far more terrifying than his shouting. “How is that possible? Do we have a traitor in our midst?”