“Even so, the transformation is more thorough that anyone could have hoped.” She rises and brings me the linen coif for my hair. It is old and worn out, but far too clean, so I make her dirty it in ashes from the hearth. When that is done, she places it on my head and helps me tuck my hair up under it. “There.” She steps away to see the full effect. Worry creases her brow. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
“I have nearly a half a dozen blades under my washerwoman gown.” Two strapped at my waist, one on each thigh, and yet another hidden along my back. I feel nearly na**d without knives at my wrist, but soldiers can be a grabby lot and I cannot risk them discovering thick, solid steel. “I am ready,” I tell her.
She takes a step toward me, hands clasped in front of her. “Have a care for yourself,” she pleads.
Touched by her concern, for she is one of the few who genuinely care about me, I give her a quick hug. “I will be, but remember, these are but d’Albret’s men, not d’Albret himself. They will be no match for me.”
Somewhat reassured, she smiles. “Very well, then. Let us go find Captain Dunois.”
We find the captain waiting for me in the main hallway. Duval and the abbess are with him. I am torn between pride at showing the abbess how well I can do this task and not wishing to expose myself or my talents to any more of her plots and intrigues.
“Sweet Jésu,” the good captain mutters. “I would never have recognized you.”
Dunois had wanted to escort me on the search himself, but it would have called far too much attention to my presence. Instead, he has handed the assignment off to the commander of Rennes, Michault Thabor, and a few of his most trusted men.
I place perhaps less trust in them than he does, but it is the best we can do under the circumstances.
And then it is time to go. My heart beats with anticipation, and the thrill of a new adventure tingles through my limbs. Feeling saucy, I turn to the abbess. “Will you not invoke Mortain’s blessings on our venture, Reverend Mother?” While I ask it of her out of spite, I realize I would like His blessing, for all that He and I are at odds with each other right now.
Her nostrils flare in irritation, but she bows her head and places a hand on my coifed hair. “May Mortain guide you and keep you in His dark embrace,” she intones, then removes her hand quickly. Even so, I feel somewhat calmer, as if Mortain has somehow heard her in spite of her ill grace.
We leave the palace through the servants’ quarters, but since it is late and most are abed, our passing goes unnoticed.
Outside, a disreputable-looking donkey awaits with two baskets, one on either side. They are even filled with laundry.
Commander Thabor speaks to me in a low voice. “We have identified all the vulnerable spots in the city: the gate towers, the sally ports, the bridges, the cistern, and the gates along the river.”
“Excellent. What of the patrols?”
“We have doubled the watch along the city walls and increased the number of patrols at their base.”
“Where do you suggest we begin?” I ask.
“The east gate, then we will work our way around to the other gates.”
“Very well. Lead on.”
Thabor nods and walks purposefully ahead while his men scatter out so that it will not appear as if we are together. It would not do for me to be seen with them, for what business would the captain of the city guard have with a laundress? I know it is supposed to give me comfort, being followed by the guards, but it makes the skin between my shoulders twitch, which I force myself to ignore.
The city streets are quiet, as all smart or respectable citizens closed their doors and shutters and took to their beds long ago. As we move through streets full of houses leaning drunkenly against one another, the clop-clopping of the donkeys’ hooves echoes off the cobblestones and sounds loud to my ears. However, if people hear us, they just snuggle deeper in their beds or ensure their doors are latched.
The buildings become smaller and seedier as we move farther away from the palace area. Meager shops and small taverns are interspersed among these smaller houses, and the streets are louder. At last we reach the military road that runs along the city wall. No one but soldiers should be on this road at this time of night. We pass three small watchtowers before we finally come to the east gatehouse. Commander Thabor walks past as if hurrying on some business of his own, but he will find some shadow in which to wait for me.
Still leading the donkey, I walk up to the gatehouse and halt just outside the door. The sound of murmuring voices reaches me, as the men on watch amuse themselves by telling stories. I hoist one of the baskets from the donkey’s back, settle it on my hip, then head for the door. The guard on duty watches my approach with lazy eyes. “What do you want?” he asks.
“I am looking for Pierre de Foix.” It is the name of a soldier who has taken ill with the flux and is even now abed in the infirmary. He will most definitely not be on duty.
“He is not here, so you may be on your way.”
My eyes snap with irritation—I do not even have to pretend—and I swat the basket of laundry in annoyance. “He owes me four sous for his laundry. I do not do this backbreaking work out of pity.” I take a step closer to him, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. “Ah, perhaps that is it. Perhaps Pierre has lost all his money dicing. How do I know you are not hiding him, eh? I think he has spent all his money on gambling and will not pay me for my honest work.”
“Honest work,” the guard scoffs.
Like a fishwife, I am merciless. “He told me he was to be on duty this night at this post. Why would he lie to me unless he was trying to cheat me? I will report him to your captain.”
Before I can continue, the guard reaches out, grabs my free arm, and pulls me close. “Do not call me a liar, wench, else I will have to punish you. Here. Look.” With that he pushes me through the gatehouse door and holds me there. “See with your own eyes that the man you seek is not here, then be gone.”
Praying that Thabor’s men will remain in their positions and not do something foolish, I quickly glance at the small group of men. There are five of them, and none are familiar to me. A sixth man turns from the small brazier in the room and grabs his crotch in a rude gesture. “I have something you can wash for me, eh?”
For a brief moment, everything inside me stills. The hair on the man’s head is as brown as a walnut, but his beard is red, and I recognize him as Reynaud, one of my father’s men. Quickly, I toss my head and turn for the door so that he will not be able to see my face. “I do not do small pieces, only large,” I call over my shoulder. That sets the room to guffawing, and I use the opportunity to step beyond the sentry’s reach and back into the night where the cover of darkness will further obscure my features. “He is probably hiding somewhere,” I mutter with ill grace.