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.
“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?”
“Hush—you got your payment,” I remind him.
He spits off to the side. “Won’t be worth nothing if I don’t get out of here.”
True enough.
As I watch them leave, I am filled with a nearly overpowering need to follow them. Follow them out of the stable yard, past the guard tower, and into the streets of the city, where I can lose myself among the crowds of people. I take one step, and another, then stop. If I go with them, d’Albret will send a full contingent after us. Tilde and Odette’s chances of escape are much better without me.
Besides, I was sent here to do a job, and like that last knight who held off d’Albret’s men this afternoon, I will not leave the field until it is done.
I have not been in bed but half a turn of a glass when the scratching at my door begins. It is soft at first, no more than the whispering of leaves in the wind or the creaking of branches against the wall. I hold still in my bed, listening more closely. There it is again. This time more distinct. My heart begins to pound, and I lift my head from the pillow.
Scritch, scritch, pause, scritch, scritch, scritch.
It is Julian, using the secret code we devised when we were children, a dozen lifetimes ago. But it is not a child’s game he wants to play tonight. I burrow farther into the mattress and pull the covers up over my ears, then hear the muffled rattle as he lifts the latch. I hold very still and keep my breathing even, praying that he will close the door and move on, relieved when he does.
Even so, the scratching follows me into my dreams and turns them into nightmares.
Chapter Four
I AM AWAKENED IN THE morning when my two ladies in waiting come bursting into the room. Jamette de Lur leads the way, pausing barely long enough to keep the door open for Tephanie Blaine, who struggles with a tray.
“Did you hear?” Jamette asks.
She is a vain, silly girl given to drama and putting on airs and takes far too much pleasure in my fall from d’Albret’s favor. “Good morning to you too,” I drawl.
Reminded of her place, she flushes slightly, then dips a begrudging curtsy. “Good morning, my lady.”
“What is this news you are screeching about?”
She is torn between denying that she was screeching and launching into her drama. The drama wins. “They rooted out a nest of traitors and rebels yesterday! If not for their quick action, we could all have been slaughtered in our beds.”
So that is the story d’Albret and the others are putting out. There is a faint rattle as Tephanie sets the tray down on a table. “Also, a servant girl went missing during the night.”
I throw off the covers and get to my feet. “My, the castle was busy while I slept! Surely this servant just snuck off to visit her lover?”
Tephanie looks at me with stricken eyes and I see that she is genuinely frightened. “They searched the castle high and low and found no signs of her.”
Jamette tosses her head and hands me my chamber robe. “Some say she was in league with the traitors.”
Débile! I should have seen that coming. I was so concerned with getting them away as soon as possible I didn’t stop to consider the timing.
“I heard she was killed for seeing something she shouldn’t have,” Tephanie says as she gives me a cup of heated wine.
My head snaps up to study her more closely, but she does not appear to be insinuating anything. “Where did you hear that?”
She shrugs. “The servants were talking when I fetched your tray.”
I say nothing and sip the wine, taking a moment to compose myself.
Jamette’s eyes go wide. “Mayhap the ghosts got her.”
I bite back a sigh. Must I give up sleeping altogether in order to stay abreast of what goes on in this castle? “What ghosts?” I ask.
