“I merely meant that no matter how nervous you get or what the baron does, do not look over here. It could mean both our deaths.”
Her eyes widen and for a moment I think she will lose her nerve altogether. “For your sister’s sake,” I remind her, hoping to strengthen her resolve.
It works. She gives a firm nod and turns to the task of filling the tub. I slip into my hiding place behind the silk wall hangings and pray they will not also serve as my shroud.
The stone wall is cold against my back, and the curtains part just the slightest bit. If I bend my knee a little, I do not even need to touch the silk to be able to see into the room.
I have not been in place longer than a handful of moments before there is a noise at the door. Tilde freezes, then resumes pouring water from the ewer into the tub.
The chamber door bursts open and Count d’Albret strides in, followed by a handful of retainers, my half brothers Pierre and Julian among them. Although they share the same parents, they look nothing alike. Pierre takes after our father, with a thick build and coarse manner, while Julian favors their mother, with more refined looks and manner. D’Albret unbuckles his sword, and Bertrand de Lur steps forward to take it from him. “I want another score of men riding for Rennes tonight,” d’Albret tells his captain. “I want them in the city as soon as possible, hiding among the citizens. I’ll need reliable eyes and ears there if we are to retaliate against her treachery.”
My pulse quickens.
“As you wish, my lord.” De Lur takes the sword and lays it on one of the chests.
D’Albret shrugs his massive, bull-like shoulders, and my brother Pierre jumps forward to take his mantle before it can fall to the ground. “I want them to report on the city’s mood, the garrison, the provisions. I want to know if the city can withstand a siege, and for how long. They are to find out who is loyal to the duchess, who is loyal to the French, and whose loyalty is still for sale.”
“Consider it done, my lord,” de Lur says.
Pierre leans forward, his hooded eyes bright. “And what of your message to the duchess? When shall we send it?”
Like a striking snake, d’Albret reaches out and clouts him across the mouth. “Did I give you leave to speak of the matter, whelp?”
“No, my lord.” Pierre dabs the blood from his split lip, looking resentful and sullen. I could almost feel sorry for him, but he has worked so hard to become just like d’Albret that I feel nothing but contempt.
The room grows quiet and I angle my eye to better see d’Albret. He is studying Tilde, who is concentrating very carefully on the steaming ewer of water she is pouring into the tub. “Leave me to my bath,” d’Albret tells the others.
With a knowing glance or two in Tilde’s direction, they quickly disperse.
I can see Tilde’s neat linen veil tremble as she shakes with fear. D’Albret takes two strides toward her and comes fully into my view for the first time. He grabs her chin between his fingers and pulls her head up so he can look into her face. “You know better than to speak of what you hear in my chamber, do you not?”
She keeps her gaze averted. “I am sorry, my lord. You will have to speak up. My father boxed my ears so often I am fair hard of hearing.”
Oh, clever girl! My estimation of Tilde grows, but this ruse will not be enough to save her.
D’Albret studies her for a long moment. “Just as well,” he says, and Tilde cocks her head to the side as if straining to hear him. He studies her another few seconds before letting go of her chin.
D’Albret holds his arms out to his sides, a silent order to remove his shirt. When Tilde steps forward to lift it over his head, d’Albret’s eyes roam up and down her slender body, and I see the exact moment his desire awakens. The rutting pig will bed her before he orders her death.
Now I will need to find a way to smuggle Tilde out of the palace as well as her little sister. Unless I have an opportunity to kill d’Albret before then.
Tilde removes his shirt and steps away.
D’Albret’s chest is shaped like an enormous wine cask, his flesh the pallid whiteness of a fish, but instead of being covered in scales, it is covered with coarse black hair. I ignore my disgust and force myself to search his body. Mortain must have marqued him for death.
But nowhere among all that hair is the marque I seek. No smudge, no shadow, nothing that will allow me to kill this monster with Mortain’s blessing. My hands grip the silken wall hangings, and I crush them in my fists. It would be too dangerous to attack him head-on. Perhaps Mortain intends for me to stab him in the back or pierce the base of his skull with a thin, needle-like blade.
D’Albret unlaces his breeches and steps out of them and into the tub. I stretch my neck to try to get a glimpse of his back, but I cannot see it from this angle.
As Tilde starts to move away, he reaches out and grabs her hand. She grows still, afraid to move. Slowly, with his eyes on her face, he pulls her hand down into the tub, into the water, his lips growing slack with anticipated pleasure.
Please, Mortain, no! I cannot watch this, else I will have to kill him, marque or no.
Like an unsettled flock of pigeons, every one of the nuns’ warnings rushes through my head: killing without a marque is killing outside Mortain’s grace and I will imperil my immortal soul. It will be sundered from me forever and forced to wander lost for all eternity.
But I cannot stand here and watch him rape her. Still uncertain of what I intend to do, I begin inching from my hiding place and reaching for my knives. A sharp knock at the door halts my step.
“Who is it?” d’Albret growls.
“Madame Dinan, my lord.”
D’Albret drops Tilde’s hand—is that her sigh of relief or my own?—then nods his head toward the door. The maid rushes to open it and let Madame Dinan in.
Her glance flicks in annoyance toward the younger, prettier serving girl. “Leave,” she orders the girl. “I will attend the count.”
Tilde does not wait for d’Albret to agree but slips silently from the room, proving once again that she has her wits about her.
When the two are alone, d’Albret rises from the tub, and I have a clear view of his back. The water sluices over the coarse black hair like a stream running over rocks, but there is no marque. Not even a smudge or shadow I can pretend is one.
Disappointment strikes me like a fist, and I feel sick. Not merely a sourness in my stomach, but a sickness of the heart. True despair. If this man is not marqued, then how can Mortain exist?
On the heels of that thought comes a more welcome realization. If Mortain does not exist, then how can there be any danger in stepping outside His grace?
But am I certain that He does not exist? Certain enough to stake my eternal soul on it?
Before I can decide, the chamber door bursts open and d’Albret’s head snaps up. “Who’s there?”
Marshal Rieux’s voice holds a note of faint distaste. “I apologize for the inconvenience. But the scouts have returned from Ancenis.”
“And it could not wait until morning?” d’Albret asks.
I am certain d’Albret will strike Rieux down where he stands for his gross insolence in interrupting, but he does not. Either Rieux was born under a lucky star or d’Albret has some need for the man and does not wish to destroy him just yet.