Dark Triumph
Page 32

The abbess inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring. That she is so visibly annoyed gives me hope that she is taking my words to heart.
She shoves her hands into her sleeves and crosses to look out the window. I stay where I am and try to mask the fact that I am seething inside.
“Very well, then,” she says. “I will send you back with but one purpose: to get close enough to kill d’Albret.”
Sweet Mortain. Does she truly think I will fall for that twice? “While I have longed to do that very thing, Reverend Mother, does it not go against every precept you have ever taught me? For he is not marqued. Unless”—I pause as a thought occurs to me—“has Annith seen it?”
The abbess’s lips thin, and she removes her hands from her sleeves. For a moment, I think she will strike me. “What do you know of Annith? Have you been corresponding with her while in Nantes? That was strictly forbidden.”
I am so surprised by this outburst that I do not even think to say anything but the truth. “No, Reverend Mother! I have not spoken with her—even by note—since I left the convent.”
Slowly, with visible difficulty, the abbess reins in her temper and turns back to the window.
“How can d’Albret not be marqued after all that he has done?” she asks, as if Annith’s name was never mentioned. “Perhaps you simply cannot see it. Or perhaps you have not looked hard enough. Perhaps your fear has made you weak and overcautious.”
Anger spurts through me and I fight hard to tamp it back down. It will not do to lose my temper in front of her. “He is not marqued. Believe me, I checked often. I saw him in all his n**ed glory just two days before I left Nantes.”
“It seems to me there is a good chance it has appeared since then,” she says stubbornly.
That is when I realize she will not take no for an answer. She is doing everything in her power to force me back into the little box of her making. The moment has come in which I must choose between the convent’s little box, or stepping fully away from everything I have ever known. I try one last approach. “If I do as you ask, I might be able to get into the palace, and I might even get to d’Albret himself, but I will never get out alive. Those loyal to him will see to that.”
Even as I speak the words, I can see in her eyes that she already knows this. That is when it hits me: all I have ever been to her is a tool, a tool so damaged that she does not mind if it gets utterly destroyed.
“We are all asked to make sacrifices in our service to Mortain. And you in particular have wished for death ever since you first arrived at the convent. Perhaps this is Mortain’s way of answering your prayers.”
Her words pierce my heart like sharp black thorns, and the familiar darkness and despair threatens to overwhelm me. Has she ever been so willing to sacrifice any other novitiate for Mortain’s cause? No, for her cause, for this is about bringing glory and recognition to the convent—to her.
But, I realize, there is a freedom in having so many of my secrets exposed—it gives her far less power over me. “Perhaps I am no longer fit for Mortain’s service, Reverend Mother, for I will not go back.”
Her head rears as if I have slapped her. Odd that as little as she thinks of me, she did not see this defiance coming. Her pulse beats angrily in her neck, and she turns again to stare out the window. Already I am feeling lighter, wondering just where I will go and who I will be once I am free of both the convent and d’Albret.
She draws a deep breath, then turns back to face me. I do not understand the faint gloat of victory I see in her eyes. Until she speaks. “Very well. Then I will send Ismae.”
Sweet Jésu, not Ismae! D’Albret’s anger that Ismae thwarted his attack on the duchess in the hallway at Guérande still burns hot and bright.
D’Albret does not know of my hand in that or I would not still be alive. “You cannot send Ismae.” I keep my voice calm and unconcerned, as if I am merely pointing out a flaw in her plan rather than trying to save the life of my best friend. “For one, d’Albret has seen her. Her face is permanently etched in his mind after she foiled his plans in Guérande. The man is unearthly in his ability to see through disguises and subterfuge.”
The abbess is not fooled by my calm demeanor. She has well and truly snared me in her trap and knows it. “We have many ways of creating a disguise. We can cut her hair, change its color, stain her skin. We can have her looking old and haggard in a matter of hours.”
“D’Albret would never allow anyone into his presence, even a servant, who offended his eye so greatly.”
Even if they did not recognize her and kill her outright, they would use her most poorly, simply for the sport of it. “I still think he would recognize her. And do not forget, many of his retainers have seen her at Duval’s side. If by some small chance d’Albret himself were to miss her, one of his retainers would be all too eager to point her out to him, to gain favor.”
The abbess folds her hands and rests her chin upon her fingers. “Ah, that is too bad, for it would be a most excellent solution.” Her words chill me, for I do not expect a capitulation so soon. However, her next words turn the blood in my veins to ice. “Perhaps it is time to send Annith on her first mission. D’Albret has never seen her; no one outside the convent has ever seen her, and she is our most highly skilled novitiate ever.”
She may as well send a lamb into a wolves’ den, for while Annith’s skill is great, she is also wholly good and could not even begin to guess what tricks and deceit they would use upon her. Is the abbess so ruthless that she would consign Ismae or Annith to certain death? She must be bluffing.
She must.
But am I certain enough to stake my friends’ lives on it?
A cool calmness settles over me, and I meet the abbess’s impersonal gaze. “That will not be necessary, Reverend Mother. I will go.”
Her face relaxes slightly. “Excellent. I am pleased to see you know where your duty lies.”
“When do I leave?”
“Within the next day or two. I will know more after this afternoon’s council meeting.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
DIZZY AND NUMB, I STUMBLE toward my chamber, desperate for solitude.
It appears all roads lead to d’Albret in the end. Whether I run at him in anger or run away from him in fear, the road will always curve back to him.
Why did I think I could escape? When I first realized I would need to travel with Beast, I knew there was no escape, merely a postponement of the inevitable. But then, once here, I was stupid enough to let hope slip in, even knowing it was merely the gods mocking me.
I had forgotten a lifetime of hard-won lessons in a matter of days.
Clearly I am fated to meet my death at d’Albret’s hands. The real question is, will he meet his at mine?
For that is all that is left to me: to strike quick and sure and true and make utterly certain he dies before me.
Or is it? What would happen if I simply walked away? Surely Duval could protect Ismae. My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the chamber door. Afraid Ismae has heard of my meeting with the abbess, I hurry to open it, dismayed to find Beast glowering in the hall, arm still raised to knock.
Every word I have ever known flees my head and I stare open-mouthed. He is no longer tinged with gray or green, and his hair has been trimmed. He leans on a cane, but other than that, he appears to have gotten here under his own power.
He lowers his arm. “So you are here. I thought you might be hiding from me.”
Even though I have been doing precisely that for the past week, I scoff. “Why should I hide from you?”
His eyebrows lower ominously, and the look he gives me nearly singes the hair from my head. “I have sent Yannic every night to fetch you so that we may talk. Why have you avoided him?”
That is why he had the little gargoyle following me? I shrug. “I thought you didn’t trust me to identify d’Albret’s men and sent him to check up on me. You made your objections clear enough in the council meeting.”
With visible effort, he unclenches his teeth. “I was objecting because it was too dangerous.”
“Oh? Then you are not angry with me for being d’Albret’s daughter?” I do not know what madness compels me to toss salt in the wounds I have made, but I cannot stop myself.
“I thought you established that you were Mortain’s daughter?”
“Yes, well, that is a mere technicality, as the abbess made clear in that same meeting.”
He shakes his great head. “I do not trust that woman, not wholly. Nor should you.”
That he is right does nothing to warm me to him.
His face softens then, and his eyes lose their angry light. “Sybella, we must talk.”
It is the softness that has me catching my breath, for not in any of my dreams did I imagine I would see him look that way at me. But merde, I cannot afford his sympathy or understanding. Not now, for it will crumble all my resolve faster than I can muster it. “What is there to say? I am the daughter of the man who killed your sister, and, what’s worse, I lied to you about it again and again.”
“Stop it,” he growls. “There is far more to it than that.”
His seeing that fills me with great joy, which I ruthlessly tamp down. “What I know is that I was supposed to stay and kill d’Albret that night, and you stopped me. You ruined the plans I had made and forced me to leave the city with my task undone, and now I must return to finish it.” Saying the words aloud causes my throat to constrict so that I must pause a moment before continuing. “It would have been so much easier then, before I knew—” I stop again, unsure what I mean to say.
The fierce glower is back on his face and he takes a step into the room. “What do you mean, you are returning? On whose orders?”
“The convent’s, for, like you, I am sworn to serve my god, and that is where He wishes me to go.” But even as I say this, I know it is the abbess who wishes me to face d’Albret. I do not know if Mortain is in agreement with her or not. Perhaps this is my punishment for turning my back on Him and the teachings of the convent.
Before we can argue further, a page approaches. He glances from Beast to me, then back to Beast again, unsure as to what is going on. “Do you have a message for one of us?” I prompt.
He clears his throat. “Yes, my lady. Both you and Sir Waroch are requested to attend the council meeting in the duchess’s chambers. I am to escort you there now.”
“But of course,” I say, for this interruption suits me perfectly. I do not wish to be having this conversation at all. “Lead the way.” I step out of my room, forcing Beast to back up so that I do not shut his nose in the door, then I turn and let the page lead me down the hall. I hear the thump of Beast’s cane as he follows.
We are the last to arrive in the council chambers. Seeing us enter the room, the abbess narrows her eyes in disapproval, and I do not know if it is for me alone or because Beast and I are together. Duval motions us to take seats as he continues speaking.
“. . . have taken Lady Sybella’s counsel to heart and have moved up the marriage between Anne and the Holy Roman emperor. It will be taking place this afternoon, by proxy. Hopefully the marriage will afford the duchess some measure of protection, especially since I have received reports that d’Albret and his forces are preparing to leave Nantes and march on Rennes. They may even have left by now, as the last message was hours old.”
Even though I have been expecting the announcement, it sends a spasm of fear down my spine. He will sniff me out just as he did when I was but eight years old and hiding one of the mongrel pups his favorite hunting bitch had given birth to.
Except I will not be here. I will be heading straight for him. Under his own nose may be the one place he might not think to look for me.
Captain Dunois is the next to speak. “Thanks to the Lady Sybella, we have rooted out what we hope to be the last of the saboteurs, so d’Albret will receive no aid once he arrives.”
How can he be so certain? I wonder. We have found seventeen men, but what if there are more? What if I missed some?
“What of the Spanish troops?” the duchess asks, her face drawn and shadowed. “Will they be here before d’Albret?”
“They arrived early this morning, Your Grace,” Captain Dunois says. “My second in command is seeing to their quartering.”
While that is good news, we all know that the one thousand Spanish troops is nearly insignificant against d’Albret’s numbers.
“And the free companies?”
“They have been contracted, Your Grace,” the chancellor tells her. “They should be here in a fortnight.”
Not soon enough.
The duchess turns back to Captain Dunois. “Has the weather cleared enough to let the British troops land?” Those six thousand troops are our one hope of breaking d’Albret’s siege of the city.
Dunois and Duval exchange a grim look. “We have just received word, Your Grace,” he says gently. “The French have taken Morlaix.” A gasp of distress goes up around the room.
“But the English troops!”
“Precisely. They will have to fight their way through the French to reach us—”
“Or be slaughtered where they stand,” Captain Dunois finishes.
There is quiet while we all ponder this latest disaster. It is as if a noose is being tightened around our poor kingdom’s neck. Duval bites back an oath and stands to pace.
Beast, who has been sitting like a simmering pot for the past few moments, finally speaks. “I will leave tomorrow and make all due haste to Morlaix, taking the charbonnerie with me.” He looks at each of the councilors in turn, as if daring any of them to object.