From out of the corner of my eye I see that the battle fever has completely consumed Beast, and he churns through the rushing guards like a plow tills through earth. Truly, we are the gods’ own children, forged in the fire of our tortured pasts, but also blessed with unimaginable gifts.
How long we fight, I do not know, but slowly, as if I am being drawn up from the bottom of some deep well, I become aware of my surroundings. Now that I have stopped fighting, I feel as thin and empty as a discarded glove. Over half of d’Albret’s men lay dead at our feet. The other half show no signs of retreating. Indeed, two of the men have gone for reinforcements.
Out of knives, I bend over and pluck a sword from one of the dead soldiers who litter the ground, then turn to Beast, who is breathing hard.
The light in his eyes is only half feral now. He opens his mouth to say something, but an explosion rocks the building—indeed, the very earth beneath our feet. It sounds as if a dozen cannon have been shot at once. Beast grabs my hand and begins pulling me toward the door.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Lazare and his charbonnerie.”
“Here?”
“He thought we might need a diversion. Nor did we think it necessary to leave the duchess’s own weapons in the hands of her enemy to be used against her.” Another explosion follows.
“And the girls?”
“At the convent of Brigantia. The abbess swore she would not release them to anyone but you or me or on the duchess’s own orders.”
As the soldiers recover and regroup, they spot us moving toward the door.
We break into a run.
At the main door to the palace, small knots of servants huddle, peeking out the door and watching, whispering among themselves, but they make no move to stop us.
Outside, in the courtyard, I blink against the bright light. Clusters of soldiers stand, trying to discern the direction of the attack, not realizing it is their very own artillery that has been destroyed. Beast uses their confusion and heads for the east gate. Not wanting to draw any more attention to ourselves, we walk rather than run. But he is a head taller than most men and I am dressed in crimson; it does not take them long to notice us. Besides, they are d’Albret’s men, and they know too well the punishment that will be exacted if they fail to stop us. They quickly shift their attention from the unknown attackers to us and begin moving toward the gate, blocking our escape.
Beast does not so much as check his stride, merely switches direction and begins running toward the stairs that lead to the battlements. I do not know what he has planned, but I follow him blindly. Behind us another shout goes up.
I glance over my shoulder to see that the archers have been summoned and are forming a line in the middle of the courtyard.
Luckily, the stairway is covered with a stone arch, which will afford us some protection, and its narrow width will force the soldiers to go two abreast and slow their pursuit.
However, when we emerge on the battlements, I quickly realize there is nowhere for us to go. I throw a questioning look at Beast, who says nothing but continues running until we reach the farthest tower—the one that looms over the river.
More shouts ring out from below and I look down to see the archers are loading their crossbows. Beast stops and turns to me. “We must jump.”
I stare down at the swollen, roiling river below. “We will be leaping to our deaths.”
“Do I bear a marque?”
I glance up at his forehead, relieved to see there is no dark smudge upon it. “No,” I say in wonder.
“Then we will make it. Trust me.” As he holds out his hand, three crossbow bolts arc by, flying wide.
The sounds of our pursuers grow louder as they gain the stairs. Soon they will be on the battlement behind us and close enough that their arrows will not miss.
I reach out and take Beast’s offered hand. A glorious smile spreads across his face, making it almost beautiful. He lifts my hand and kisses it. “Do not let go,” he says, “and kick your feet to get us well clear of the wall.”
I nod, then he tugs us several paces back from the edge. We take deep breaths, filling our lungs with air. There is a shout as one of the men gains the parapet. It is an archer, and he is raising his crossbow.
We take a running start, and then we jump.
The wall drops away beneath us and we are flying through the air. We do not let go of each other but kick and windmill with our free arms, trying to get as far away from the shallows as we can. Beast grins maniacally, as if he will keep us alive by sheer will.
Then a cold, hard shock jars my teeth and sends the rest of the air whooshing from my lungs as the water closes over my head.
Chapter Fifty-Two
THE FRIGID WATER SUCKS ME down into its murky depths. It is dark and disorienting, and I cannot tell which way is up. I remember every story I have ever heard of Saint Mer and how she lures sailors deeper and deeper into her realm until they cannot find their way back.
But this is a river, not the sea.
I try to kick to the surface, but my rich, heavy skirt is already filled with water and has turned to lead, pulling me down like an anchor. Even so, I struggle desperately to swim free. The water is dark and cloudy, and my vision is filled with bubbles swirling, much like snow in a blizzard. And still I am pulled down. I push off my shoes, then fumble at the ribbons around my waist so I can be free of my skirt, but they are wet and my hands clumsy, and no matter how I struggle, they are stuck fast in a tight, wet knot. My lungs burn with the effort of not breathing, and I am not sure how much longer I can hold my breath. Black spots dance before my eyes.
At least I have been spared the fate d’Albret had planned for me. And the fierce retribution of his men. I will die knowing that Charlotte and Louise are safe and that d’Albret will never be able to hurt anyone again.
My feet touch the soft, silty bottom of the river, and still I am too stubborn to take a breath, knowing it will be water that fills my lungs, not the air I crave.
Just as my lungs are ready to spasm, ready to gasp for air when there is nothing but water, an icy hand grabs mine. At first, my heart leaps in joy because I think it is Beast, but surely it is far too cold for any human hand. Has my father come to escort me home?
But it matters not. I kick and strain, letting the hand pull me to the surface, hoping we will make it before my lungs give way. But I am cold, so cold. My own hands no longer work properly, and I lose my grip.
I flounder for a moment, then begin to sink again, until the hand—warmer this time—grabs hold and pulls as I kick frantically for the surface.