As they escort me to the dungeon—the very dungeon Beast once occupied—my heart begins to pound like a drum and I can hear my own blood beating in my ears, for this is the stuff of every nightmare I have ever had—being helpless and at d’Albret’s mercy once more.
Chapter Forty-Nine
IT IS A LONG, DARK night. Panic and terror do their best to stalk me, but I keep them at bay, knowing that if I succumb, I will only be the weaker for it. Terror is as much one of d’Albret’s weapons as his sword or fists, and he wields it with deadly accuracy, using it to sap the will and crush the spirit.
The tower ghosts flutter near me, drawn to my warmth. To distract myself, I force my mind to stillness, curious if these ghosts will tell me their stories.
But there is nothing other than a faint restless rippling in my mind, no cries of anguish, no begging for revenge, no whispered tales of the horror that was inflicted upon them. These ghosts are far older that the others, here long before d’Albret. Maybe they were not wronged in death, but simply died.
Quiet understanding comes, like a soft breeze, and I finally realize why I am able to see not just the souls that depart from their earthly bodies but the restless ghosts who linger. If I am Death’s justice, I must be able to hear their stories.
I turn my attention to the living and what wrongs they might whisper to me. Jamette is naught but a victim, too frightened to see the bars of her own cage. And Madame Dinan? She was innocent once, but no longer. She chose to look away from the truth of d’Albret’s actions once too often, thus crossing the boundary from innocent to guilty.
And Julian? He was not a child of Mortain and did inherit that extra measure of strength, and yet he rejected so much of what d’Albret wanted him to be, fought so hard against the taint that marred him. Unlike Pierre, who embraced it all.
Julian always offered me kindness and love where Pierre and d’Albret offered only cruelty and pain. We had survived so many horrors together, our life was awash in so much wrongness, that the warped love he held out to me felt almost right. Almost. And in his own way, Julian was protecting me—from Pierre.
I know that love is required to defeat the monster before me, but I am at a loss as to how to manifest that love. I face him secure in Mortain’s love, and Beast’s love, and love for my sisters, but I do not know how to turn that into a weapon that I can use against him.
I must trust now in the god whose blood flows in my veins and in my own true nature. And while it is not as dark and twisted as d’Albret’s, it is dark. And strong. And will hopefully offer some small chance of victory. I must have faith, but having faith is hard, so very much harder than despair.
The sound of a key in the lock wakes me with a jolt, and it is all I can do to keep from leaping to my feet and rushing over to peer through the bars. Slowly, I stand.
When the door is flung open, two soldiers stride in, then drag me into the outer chamber. De Lur is there. “It is time to face your father’s justice.”
I am escorted to a chamber where Madame Dinan herself is waiting for me, along with Jamette. Two servants are filling a tub with water. Dinan does not even bother to look at me, just stares out the window. “Get her out of those rags,” she orders.
The two servants step forward, eyeing me warily, but I do not make their job difficult, for none of this is their fault. I watch Jamette the whole time, hoping to unnerve her, for it is her duplicity that has brought me here. “All you had to do was turn the other way,” I tell her under my breath, “and I would have been out of your life forever. Julian might even have come to hate me eventually, leaving the way clear for you. But now—now I will be a martyr in his eyes, and my memory much more difficult to compete with.”
Her eyes widen and she glances at Madame Dinan to see if she has heard, but the older woman is still staring out the window.
She has aged much since I last saw her. The skin is sagging off her delicate bones. Her eyes are no longer merely nervous but haunted-looking. As if feeling my gaze on her, she turns, but even then she will not meet my eyes. “Burn the rags she was wearing,” she tells the maid. “And get her into the tub.”
“There is no need. I will do it myself,” I say, stepping into the warm water and taking up the soap.
Once the servants have left, Dinan turns to me. “You foolish girl! You have ruined everything!”
“What do you mean?”
“Since d’Albret wasn’t able to take Rennes as he’d planned, he had to resort to other options.”
“Options that have driven Marshal Rieux from his side?”
She ignores my question. “With the duchess’s marriage to the Holy Roman emperor, he has been left with no choice but to . . .” She trails off with a glance in Jamette’s direction. “Go fetch her gown,” she orders. Jamette curtsies then hurries to do as she is told.
Remembering the abbess of Saint Brigantia’s words, I stare at her, the soap in my hand forgotten. “Is this option why my father has been communicating with the French regent?”
She stops twisting the linen handkerchief she holds and I see that her nails are bitten to the quick. “What do you know of that?”
I shrug. “Simply that there are rumors.”
She smiles thinly. “You must realize there are other ways he can gain control of the kingdom if the duchess will not honor her promises.”
I look away so she will not see how much her words disturb me, for if d’Albret is conspiring with the French regent, it can only mean disaster for the duchess. And why is Dinan telling me this? Is it because she knows I will die and take this knowledge with me? Or is there some small spark of loyalty left in her that abhors the choice d’Albret has made?
But there is no opportunity to ask further questions because Jamette returns carrying one of my gowns. It is of crimson velvet trimmed with gold braid, and I wonder if she has chosen it because the blood will not show.
Chapter Fifty
DE LUR TAKES GREAT PLEASURE in binding my hands behind my back and prodding me forward into the great hall. As I am ushered in, I hold my head high. The chamber is stuffed full of d’Albret’s retainers and vassals. Looking among them, I see that there are none of the Nantes lords who were recent allies of d’Albret’s. Have they left? Has he killed them all out of suspicion? Or perhaps any of his soldiers with a scrap of decency left with Marshal Rieux. I know not, but the soldiers and vassals here are wholly his and have been for years. They are the ones who stood silently by as he murdered each of his six wives, who eagerly carried out his order to terrorize the town into submission by raping their women and burning their homes. They are the ones who chased down and slayed any servants who remained loyal to the duchess, hunting them with as much feeling as if they were hunting rats. Whatever d’Albret plans for me, there will be no help from them.