“No, it could not. What Captain Dunois told us is true. The French have taken Ancenis. We must send a show of force immediately to help defend it.”
“Must we?” d’Albret asks, and there is another pause that sends a shard of ice deep into my gut.
“But of course!”
Through my sliver of curtain, I see a frown on Madame Dinan’s face as she smoothes her skirt over and over again, even though there is not a wrinkle in sight. D’Albret cocks his head. “Very well.” He allows Dinan to help him into his chamber robe, then turns to Rieux.
“Your sword.” D’Albret puts his hand out, and my heart starts to race. Now the fool has done it. He’s annoyed d’Albret once too often.
Marshal Rieux hesitates. D’Albret puts a finger to his lips, as if sharing a secret. I cannot bear to watch, for while I do not care for Rieux, the man has at least tried to cling to the standards of honor. I avert my eyes, shifting my gaze to the left, away from the gap in the curtains through which I’ve been watching them all.
I remember the blood . . .
I want to put my hands over my ears like a child, but I am unwilling to let go of my knives.
There is a ring of steel as Rieux draws his sword, followed by a soft meaty thud as d’Albret takes it in his hand. A moment of silence, then a faint whistling as the blade arcs through the air. It is followed by a ripping sound as the silk curtain to my right is sliced in two. Surprised silence fills the room as the bottom half slowly puddles to the floor.
I stay as still as possible, huddled far to the left and praying I cannot be seen behind the remaining piece of curtain. My heart threatens to gallop out of my chest. So close. So very, very close.
“What is wrong, my lord?”
“I thought I heard something. Besides, I detest those hangings. See that they are removed by the time I return. Now, come, let us hear what these scouts have to say.”
Then, so suddenly it nearly leaves me breathless, they all quit the room and I am left cowering behind the remaining drape staring at a tub full of cooling water. I close my eyes and shudder at how close I came to death.
At least it would have been quick.
I am still shaking as I make my way to the servants’ quarters and begin searching among all the sleeping bodies on the floor. The room smells of cold nervous sweat and stale breath from so many people crowded together, although their sheer numbers help keep them warm. I pick my way through them, looking for Tilde, but there are so many young women wrapped in blankets and headscarves—and anything else they can find to keep warm—that it is an impossible task. Odette, then. But there are only a handful of children in here, and all of them are young boys—the pages the palace uses for fetching and carrying and sending messages. Which means Odette is not here.
Perhaps she is still in the chapel. Please do not let me be too late, I pray as I slip silently from the servants’ quarters and hurry along the quiet stone passageways to look for them there.
The moment I step inside the chapel, I know I am not alone. Two pulses beat somewhere nearby. But that is not my only company. There is also an ice-cold pall that lies over the room. A restless fluttering reminiscent of moths moves silently across my skin. Ghosts. Drawn to the warmth of life like bees are drawn to nectar. Indeed, I do not even need to search for Odette and Tilde; the ghosts hover hungrily above their hiding place.
I hurry over and swat the ghosts away with my hand. Tilde is holding the sleeping Odette, and slowly, she looks up. Her face, pinched and white, goes slack with relief when she sees it is me. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she whispers.
That she did not believe I would do as I’d promised stings, and I scowl at her. “I said I would, didn’t I? I went to the servants’ quarters first. Here. I will hold the girl while you get dressed.”
Tilde frowns in puzzlement. “Why?”
I lay the bundle of men’s clothing—purloined from the slaughtered servants, although I do not share that with her—on the pew and take the sleeping Odette from her arms. “You would not survive the night,” I tell her, careful to keep my voice matter-of-fact. “Not now that you have heard d’Albret’s plans. I must get you both out immediately.”
Her face softens and her mouth wobbles and I fear she will break down in tears. “Hurry!” I hiss. “And you may well curse me before the night is through.”
She slips out of her gown and pulls on the clothing I have brought. When she is done, we wake the sleeping Odette and coax her into the unfamiliar garments. They are far too big, and when I pull my knife to trim the breeches, both she and Tilde shrink back in fear.
“Débile!” I growl. “I have not come this far nor risked this much just to kill you. Stay still.” Fear holding her in place, Odette stands while I saw at her pants until they are short enough that she will not trip on them.
“Be very still now,” I warn her. Before she or Tilde can protest, I reach up, place the edge of my knife against her rich, curly locks, and slice them off.
“My hair!” she cries, one of her hands flying to her cropped head.
“Do not be silly,” I scold her. “It is just hair and will grow back, but it will only get in your way tonight. You must make people think you are a boy. Which of the pages do you like the most?”
She wrinkles her nose. “None.”
Good girl, I think. “Then which do you find the most annoying?”
“Patou,” she says, without hesitation.
“Perfect. Pretend you are Patou. Do all the annoying things he does, walk as he does, spit as he does. All those things you must do tonight.”
She looks at me warily. I lean forward. “It is a game. A trick you must play on the entire palace. To prove that a girl is better than a boy. Can you do that?”
She looks to Tilde, who nods, then turns back to me, and I am relieved to see that some of the fear has left her face. “Yes,” she whispers, so soft and quiet no one could ever mistake her voice for a boy’s.
I turn to Tilde. “Try to see that she does not speak. Her voice will give her away.” Then I lift my knife. “I must do yours as well.”
The serving girl does not falter but steps closer for me to reach. “I cannot ever repay you,” she whispers.
“You have only to get free,” I say as I cut her hair. “That is payment enough.”
An hour later, they are safely tucked up on the seat of the night-soil cart. Odette protests loudly at first. “Bud id stinks!” she says, holding her nose.
I glance slyly at Tilde. “I warned you you might not thank me, but it is the only cart that leaves during the night and can get you into the city without question.”
“It is fine,” Tilde says through the scarf she has brought up to her face to cut the smell. We stare into each other’s eyes for a beat, and the gratitude I see there warms me, makes me think there is some small sliver of good left inside me. I reach out and grab her hand. Squeeze it. “Be strong. Once inside the city, take yourself to the convent of Saint Brigantia. Tell them—tell them the abbess of Saint Mortain has asked that they grant you sanctuary.”
Tilde’s eyes widen at that, but before she can say anything, the night-soil man calls out, “You gonna gab all night or can I be about my business?”