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The queen’s plan is both brilliant in its audacity and terrifying in its risks, and my admiration for her has only grown.
She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “I trust you two can find a way to make that happen?”
* * *
“I think it’s best if you leave the palace now,” I tell Gen once we are back in her room.
“Tonight?”
“Yes. Collect your things. There is a good chance you will not see them again otherwise.”
Gen looks as if she is being punished. “This is for your own safety,” I gently point out. “I do not trust the regent to give you the full week. Do you still have your letter?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me, and I will see that it is delivered to the king, although not by my hand.” When she has done that, I lead her outside to the servants’ chapel. She sends me a questioning glance.
“It will be easier to get Beast out of the dungeon if we have people inside the palace. Father Effram can hide you for the next day or two until we are ready to make our move.”
As we step inside the chapel, Father Effram is there, as if waiting for us. The smile he gives Gen is warm and full of compassion, although by the tilt of her chin, I am guessing she is refusing to accept either of those. I must fold my arms across my middle to avoid giving Gen a quick hug, and I cannot even say why. “I’ll see you soon.”
She nods, then follows Father Effram toward the south wall. For some reason I am put in mind of her arrival at the convent, when she was but seven years old. Instead of turning to leave, I wait. Just before she slips out of sight, she looks back over her shoulder. I give her my most confident grin. A flicker of surprise crosses her face, then she returns the smile before following Father Effram out of sight.
Chapter 66
Maraud
It wasn’t until the fifth day on the road, when the rage had cooled to a simmering boil rather than a seething one, that Maraud asked where they were going.
Pierre d’Albret cut him a sly glance. “In good time, Crunard. In good time.”
“And just who is this person you think I am so eager to see?”
“Also in good time.”
Maraud gritted his teeth and considered whether or not he could kill d’Albret before being taken down by his men.
Luckily for d’Albret, Maraud heard a seventh thrush call just then, and the birds simply weren’t that plentiful this time of year. Which meant that his friends were behind him.
That night, instead of imposing on the hospitality of a castle—there were none nearby—they spent the night in a town. It was small, and there were nearly fifty of them, filling the three inns to overflowing.
D’Albret made it a point to ensure that he—and six of his most brutal minions—were housed in the same inn as Maraud. Even sat at the same table. Maraud hunched over his dinner and tried to ignore them.
“More wine, m’lord?”
Why not? Maraud shoved his cup to the edge of the table and glanced up to nod his thanks, then froze, his heart thumping once in gladness before plummeting to his feet in cold dread when he recognized Valine. He glanced at d’Albret and his men, but their heads were close together as they hatched their evil plots.
She gave him a flirtatious smile as she poured his wine—just as any tavern wench might. “Will that be all, m’lord?” She cocked her hip out at a saucy angle and placed a hand on it, making her meaning clear.
Maraud choked. The noise drew the attention of Pierre, whose calculating eyes swept briefly over Valine. “Take her up on it, Crunard. Maybe bedding the wench will release some of the black humors plaguing you. They grow tiresome.”
“You see? Even your friend agrees we should get to know each other better.” Maraud had known Valine for over seven years and had never seen her like this.
“Well,” he muttered grumpily into his cup, “if my lord insists.”
Pierre looked at her again. “If you don’t, I will.” That spurred Maraud to his feet.
“And, Crunard.” Pierre motioned for him to draw closer. When Maraud’s ear was nearly to his mouth, Pierre said, “If you try to escape, I will take it out on the girl. Have no doubt.”
“I don’t,” Maraud grumbled, then grabbed Valine’s hand and allowed himself to be tugged toward the stairs.
“What in the name of the Nine are you doing here?” he hissed at her.
She leaned against the wall at the top of the stair landing. “Watching your back.”
“I don’t want you anywhere near these men. It’s d’Albret, Valine.”
“Have you turned into an old woman since we last fought together? I know who it is. That’s why we’re here.”
“We?”
“Second table from the fireplace. Andry and Tassin. We thought it would be easy enough for them to insinuate themselves among d’Albret’s other mercenaries.”
“To what end?”
She looked at him as if he had grown simple. “So you will not be alone in an enemy camp. You’d wanted to know what he was up to. Now is our chance. And while it’s a shame he forced your hand, don’t let that blind you to an opportunity.”
“What about you and Jaspar?”
“We will follow behind but keep away from the main party.”
Maraud nodded in approval. “How did you know where to find me?”
“At first I thought Lucinda had set the king’s men upon you. But when I went to talk to her—”
Relief surged through Maraud, and he stepped forward to grab Valine’s shoulders. “You saw her?”
She scowled. “Of course. How else was I to find out why you hadn’t come back?”
He closed his eyes and allowed himself the first deeply drawn breath he’d had in over four days. “Praise Camulos.”
When he opened them, it was to find Valine studying him with a speculative look. “She grew agitated when she saw me, and fearful. I hate to admit it, but she cares for you. Although saints only know why.”
“Pierre claimed to have someone I would want to see. I was afraid it was her.”
Valine’s face cleared with understanding. “You can put aside that worry.”
Maraud ran his hands through his hair. “Thank the saints for small blessings,” he murmured. He then hurriedly told Valine what little he knew of d’Albret’s plan, and how Andry and Tassin might best approach d’Albret to get hired on. When he had finished, Valine reached up, put her hands in his hair and messed it. He reared back. “What’s that for?”
“D’Albret’s no fool. You need to come back looking like you’ve just had a decent tumble.” Her hands left his hair and came down to loosen the lacings of his doublet, then reached for his breeches.
He hopped back, quicker than a rabbit. “I can loosen my own breeches,” he said shortly.
“Good.” Then she stepped past his hand, rose up, and pressed her lips against his. It wasn’t soft or romantic, but pure business. When she had smashed his lips good and hard, she took a moment to rub her own cheek against his stubble, reddening it. “There,” she said at last. “I think that will be enough to convince him. Although if you want to stare at me from across the room occasionally looking like a lovesick fool, it couldn’t hurt.” She smirked.
And with that, she yanked her own bodice askew, twisted her skirts off center, and sauntered back down the stairs.
Chapter 67
Genevieve
It is, perhaps, the strangest gathering ever to have taken place in this chapel. For one, the chapel is different at night, with only the flickering votives to illuminate it. Without any light streaming through the stained-glass windows, it is darker and more mysterious feeling.
There is an Arduinnite, although she is dressed as a serving maid rather than in their traditional garb of leather breeches and fur tunic; a little man who resembles a gnome from a hearth tale; a slight, dark-haired charbonnerie who looks as sharp as a hunting knife; a soldier named after a chicken; and two of Death’s daughters—
all overseen by a priest who follows the patron saint of mistakes.
The knife-sharp man shoots me a dubious glance. “She doesn’t look dangerous enough to threaten the king.” A touch of humor softens his words.
“Come now, Lazare, that is what makes her such a good weapon,” Sybella says. “Surely a charbonnerie would know that.”
Father Effram waves us to the front, where everybody else is already seated on the hard wooden benches. We all look—more or less—like servants, although why we are in the chapel in the dead of night would require some explaining.
Father Effram raises his hands in a blessing, just as if he were conducting a true mass. “So how do we get our friend out of his predicament?” His voice is pitched low, as if reciting the liturgy.
“How do we get him out of it without anyone being the wiser or discovering he is gone, is the more relevant question,” Sybella corrects him.
Father Effram reaches for a simple gold chalice, places it on the altar in front of him, and fills it with wine. “Well, the court will be leaving for Amboise in two weeks’ time. Perhaps we need only fool them that long.”
“Unless they’re taking Beast with them.” Sybella’s face is calm, but for a moment, I would swear that I have her gift and can feel her heart racing.
