De Lur nods, but before he can give the order, d’Albret calls out additional instructions. “When that is done, question the men. See if any have departed for Rennes in the last week. If so, be sure to bring them to me for questioning when they return.”
The men-at-arms grow silent—a few grow pale—for the methods d’Albret uses for questioning are the well-known stuff of nightmares. De Lur nods curtly, then goes to carry out his lord’s orders. On his way out of the hall, he glances at me and winks. I pretend I do not see and instead focus on my brother Pierre as he strides past the departing captain. His helmet is under his arm, his chin is raised, and he has an ugly expression on his face. The white scar through his left eyebrow stands out like a brand. “What happened?” he calls as he strips out of his gloves. “How did she get away?”
D’Albret’s head snaps up. “You were late with your men.”
The accusation stops Pierre cold, and the rush of conflicting emotions that flutter across his face would be humorous if his situation were not so dire. “We were delayed by citizens who tried to jam the gates to prevent our joining you on the field.”
D’Albret studies him a long moment, trying to see if he is lying. “You should have killed them.”
“I did,” Pierre says, his full, ripe mouth sullen.
“You should have killed them faster,” d’Albret mutters, and a bitter laugh nearly escapes my throat. My brother does not murder quickly enough for him. In the end, however, d’Albret gives a brusque nod, which is as close as he ever comes to praise.
A commotion disrupts the tense moment as the returning soldiers herd a half a dozen men into the hall, naught but the dregs of the servants, by the looks of them.
D’Albret taps a finger to his lips. “They were found in the tower?”
De Lur kicks one of the men, who is not groveling enough to suit him. “No, but they were not on duty and have no witnesses to say where they were during the attack.”
D’Albret cocks his head like a curious vulture. Slowly, he approaches the small group of the duchess’s servants. “Are you such very loyal men, then?” he asks, his voice as soft and gentle as the finest velvet.
When no one answers, he smiles. It sends chills down my back. “You can tell me, for I am a great admirer of loyalty.”
The oldest of them does his best to stand tall, but it is clear that he has been beaten and his leg will not work properly. “Aye, my lord,” he says proudly. “We have served our duchess from the moment she was born and do not intend to stop now.”
“The French were not able to buy you off with their gold?”
I close my eyes and pray briefly that the old fool will watch his tongue and look to his own safety, but he is too wrapped up in his honor. “Not us, sire.”
D’Albret takes a step closer, his great bulk towering over the man, his gaze sweeping over the group. “Which of you learned of our little surprise greeting and crept out to warn the duchess?”
“None of us knew,” the old man says, and I start to breathe a sigh of relief. But the fool is still riding high on his great loyalty and adds, “But we’d have told her if we did.”
Annoyed, d’Albret looks over at Pierre. “How did we miss this one?”
My brother shrugs. “Even the best traps don’t catch all the rats the first time, my lord.”
Without word or warning, d’Albret hauls back his steel-gauntleted hand and strikes the old man across the face. The servant’s neck snaps back with an audible crack. Julian squeezes my hand—hard—warning me to stay silent and still. And even though I want to fly at d’Albret, I do not move. Just as that last valiant knight held his position, so must I hold mine. As Death’s handmaiden, I must be in place so I may strike when the time comes. Especially now, when d’Albret’s bold treachery has assuredly earned him the very marque I have been waiting to see for six long months.
Besides, the old man is dead; my anger will do him no good. I utter a prayer for his departing soul. It is the least I can do, although it is not nearly enough.
Marshal Rieux steps forward with a look of outrage on his face, but before he can speak, d’Albret roars out, “I spared your miserable lives.” His voice reverberates through the room like thunder, and the other servants finally have the sense to cower in fright. “And this is how you repay me?” There is a ring of steel as he draws his sword. My stomach shrivels into a tight little knot and tries to crawl up my throat, but before I can so much as call out a warning, the sword cuts through the huddled men. Blood splatters over the floor, then a second blow dispatches the rest.
I do not even realize I have taken a step forward until I feel Julian’s arm snake around my waist to hold me in place. “Careful,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes and wait for the roiling in my gut to pass. Julian nudges me, and my eyes snap open, a carefully neutral expression on my face. D’Albret’s shrewd gaze is on us and I curl my lip, as if faintly amused by the carnage he has just wrought. “Fools,” I mutter. It is a good thing that I no longer have a heart, because if I did, it would surely break.
“Julian!” d’Albret calls out, and I feel Julian flinch. He steps away from my side. “Yes, my lord father?”
“See to the cleanup here. And you, daughter.” D’Albret’s flat black eyes zero in on me and I force myself to meet his gaze with naught but amusement on my face. “See to Madame Dinan. I fear she has fainted.”
As I step away from the safety of the stone wall to do as my father bids, I wish again—so very much—that Julian had not found me up on that tower. If our father finds out what I did, he will kill me as easily as he killed those men.
Although perhaps not as quickly.
Chapter Three
I FOLLOW THE FOOTMEN CARRYING Madame Dinan to her room, my thoughts and movements sluggish, as if I am wading through mud. It takes every last crumb of discipline I possess to keep myself together. I do not dare stumble about half-witted now.
When we reach the chamber, I have the footmen put her on the bed, then order them from the room. I stare down at the older woman. We are not allies, Madame Dinan and I; we merely share each other’s secrets, which is an entirely different thing.
She came into our lives only occasionally, when she would escape her duties as governess to the duchess, the very duchess she has so thoroughly betrayed. D’Albret relied on her to oversee his daughters’ upbringing. Much of that oversight was conducted across distances, with letters and go-betweens, except when some tragedy struck—then she would make an effort to come in person and smooth things over.
She looks older in repose, her face missing the false gaiety she wears like a mask. I unlace her bodice to ease her breathing, then remove the heavy, cumbersome headdress she wears. Not because it has contributed to her fainting, but because I know it eats at her vanity that she has white hair like an old woman’s. It is a small enough punishment, but it is one I can afford.
I reach down and slap her cheek—perhaps harder than necessary—to rouse her. Her breath catches in her throat as she startles awake. She blinks twice, orienting herself, then begins to sit up. I push her back down. “Easy now, madame.”