“And what risks would those be, my lord?” My words drip with honeyed sweetness that is as false as it is polite.
He says nothing, but he glowers at me from across the table. The loathing he shows toward me is every bit as painful as I feared. “If you do not trust me—”
“Of course he trusts you, my lady! If not for you, he would still be rotting in some dungeon, or worse.”
“I am so glad that someone remembers,” I mutter. I take a steadying breath, and when I speak again, my voice is calm. “If you do not trust me, or are too worried about the risks, the captain can send whatever men he likes to accompany me. Indeed, the plan will only work if he does, for a man can stay close to the traitors and mark their movements, while I cannot.” Beast and I hold each other’s gazes for a long moment.
Captain Dunois begins stroking his chin again, a sure sign he is deep in thought. “I do not see how it could do any harm. And while I hate to ask this of you, it is unnerving knowing his agents are lurking about in the city, waiting for orders from him. We could start with the free companies and hangers-on. That would be the easiest place for someone to slip in unremarked.”
“I concur, Captain. It is decided, then. How shall we do it?” We spend the better part of an hour hammering out a plan. The entire time, I can feel the abbess watching me. Her displeasure puzzles me somewhat, for have I not done the very thing she wishes, showing how helpful the convent can be in such times? But it may be that only she is allowed to offer such help.
By the time we finally have our plan in place, Beast is pale, whether from his injuries or his fury, I cannot tell. As we rise to leave, the abbess takes two steps toward me, her lips pressed into a flat line. Before she can say anything, the duchess calls out. “Lady Sybella?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Will you attend upon me this afternoon? I have some things I would speak with you on.”
My heart skips lightly at this reprieve she has granted me. “But of course, Your Grace.” Without glancing back at the abbess, I follow the duchess out of the room.
Chapter Thirty-One
“METHINKS YOUR ABBESS WAS NOT pleased with the service you offered us in the meeting.”
“She did seem most unhappy. Forgive me if I overstepped, Your Grace. I only wished to help in some way. It is my family, after all, that is plaguing you so.”
Much to my surprise, the duchess stops walking and grabs my wrist. “No,” she says fiercely. “I do not hold you responsible for Count d’Albret’s actions. If I held you responsible for those, then would I not be responsible for what he has done in my name?”
I stare mutely, as I have no answer to give her.
“Tell me,” she whispers, her hands twisting together in a knot. “Tell me of those who died at Nantes. Tell me so that I may honor their memory and the sacrifice that they made.”
In that moment, my budding admiration coalesces into respect. She accepts not only the power and privilege of ruling, but also the painful responsibility.
“The nobles went first. Your seneschal, Jean Blanchet, tried to organize a true defense of the ducal palace, but he was betrayed by Sir Ives Mathurin. Sir Robert Drouet fell in that battle, as well as two dozen men whose names I do not know. The townspeople were confused. They were inclined to trust Marshal Rieux when he said that he spoke on your behalf. It was not until the nobles moved against him that the townspeople realized their error, but it was too late, for they had opened the gate to the city and allowed them in. D’Albret had his troops harry and terrorize the burghers first, in order to weaken any resolve they might have held and to squelch any desire to rise up against him. It worked.
“The servants were the most loyal. They had known and served you since you were a babe. Allixis Baron, your comptroller; Guillaume Moulner, the silversmith; Jehane le Troisne, the apothecary; Pierre the porter; Thomas the doorkeeper; a laundress; a full dozen archers of the guard; your master of the pantry; the cook; two cupbearers; and a full half of the palace guard. They all died with your name on their lips and honor in their hearts.”
Her eyes are bright with tears and I am struck again that she is but thirteen years old. Younger than I was when I first arrived at the convent.
No, I was never that young.
I say the only thing I can think of to comfort her, and in the end, it is not much comfort at all. “The traitors Julliers, Vienne, and Mathurin are dead, Your Grace. They have paid the ultimate price for their crimes.”
She looks up, her eyes gleaming fiercely. “Good,” she says. “If Mortain would bid you kill all the traitors in such a way, I would be most pleased.”
She thinks I killed them all at Mortain’s command. I do not explain that one was done in by my own twisted brother’s jealousy.
The abbess suggests I masquerade as a whore to look for the saboteurs, but Captain Dunois, for all his gruffness, has a chivalrous heart. He will not hear of it. He suggests I disguise myself as a laundress instead and points out, reasonably enough, that a laundress has an equally legitimate excuse for mingling with the soldiers. Besides, many of them traffic in both laundry and favors, so if needs must, I can play the whore in a pinch.
The abbess counts it one more mark against me that Captain Dunois opposes her plan, but it was not my doing.
I lean in close to the silvered mirror and apply small, thin strokes of charcoal to my eyebrows, making them thick and shapeless. Next I take an even smaller piece and create lines of fatigue on my face, after which I put a faint smudge of coal dust under my eyes so I will look exhausted from my toil. I finish the transformation with a smear of black wax on my teeth. In truth, I cannot wait to be someone else for a while, even a poor, drab laundress. Someone who does not leave pain and betrayal and heartache in her wake. Of course, the opportunity to thwart d’Albret is equally welcome.
I take a handful of ashes from the fire and rub them into my hair, making it a shade or two lighter and much coarser-looking. It was my hands that presented the biggest challenge, for even with my recent work with the poultices, they were smoother and softer than a laundress’s should be. To correct that, I soaked them in a strong lye soap solution for nearly two hours. Now they are red and raw and chapped, and they sting accordingly. I am most pleased with my disguise.
“No one will ever recognize you,” Ismae says from where she sits on the bed.
“That is the point,” I say wryly.