Dark Triumph
Page 41

The building is made of gray marble, with devils and grotesques decorating its walls. The lintel over the doorway is a parade of cavorting gargoyles formed in darker stone.
“This looks like hell itself,” Beast mutters.
“It is meant to.” Pressure builds behind my brow as I lean down to fit the key to the rusty lock. I am filled with a violent urge to run away. I clamp down hard on my terror and turn the key. The lock falls open. I set my teeth, lift the latch, and put my shoulder to the door.
It swings open with ease. And then the ghosts are there, cold and lifeless, swirling about me—their whispering voices are no longer coherent, but I know their accusations by heart. There is his first wife, Jeanne, the one who thought to flee to her brother for sanctuary and instead brought death to them all. Next was Françoise, mother of Julian, Pierre, and Gabriel, who died while out riding alone with d’Albret. A fall from her horse broke her neck, some say, but few believe it.
My own mother, Iselle, whose only crime was that she bore him two daughters in a row. The first child was lucky, as she was stillborn. Then the next wife, Jehanne, who dared to take a lover, and then Blanche, whose belly grew great with child—only it was no babe, in the end, but a tumor. Once she was unable to bear children, d’Albret had no further use for her. And after that, Alyse.
One of the ghosts ignores me and floats toward Beast, circling him.
“What is that?” Beast asks as a shiver racks his great body.
“Alyse,” I tell him. “It is your sister’s ghost. Here.” I point to a long white marble coffin. “This is her tomb.”
Beast reaches out for my hand. In spite of his size, in spite of all the courage I know he possesses, he looks achingly vulnerable.
I take his offered hand; I cannot do otherwise.
I know I should look away, let him grieve in private, but I cannot. The sweet girl that I knew only briefly is the key to this gentle beast who has captured my heart. Besides, to look away smacks of cowardice, for I must bear witness to the misery my family has wrought.
When he is next to the coffin, he lets go of my hand, bows his great head, and closes his eyes, a spasm of grief distorting his face, his hands clenching into fists. I can feel the surge of his rage pound through his veins. He drops to his knees, and, unable to help myself, I go to him, but tentatively, afraid that after what my family has done to his, he will reject me.
But he does not. He grasps my hand in his and pulls me close until his head rests against my stomach. We stay like that a long time. How long, I do not know. But long enough for his heart to quiet and settle into a slow, steady rhythm, like a funeral drum. When he finally pulls away, I see he has found some measure of peace. But even so, the panic thrumming through my veins does not diminish.
At last he gets to his feet and brushes the dirt from his knees. Then he stops, his gaze falling on the tiny tomb to the right of Alyse’s. He turns to me with a stricken look. “Did Alyse have a second babe?”
Slowly, with every muscle in my body screaming at me to stop, I force myself to turn my own gaze to the small tomb. The beating of my heart grows so fast I fear it will burst out of my chest. Fiercely locked-away memories come rushing up from deep inside. Like water through a dam that has broken, they roar in my ears as I read the name engraved on the stone. “No,” I say with a voice I hardly recognize as my own. “That babe is mine.”
Chapter Forty-Five
I REMEMBER THE SCREAMING...
It was as if someone opened her mouth and all the anguish of hell came pouring out. It wasn’t until my father clouted me across the face—hard—that the sound stopped and I realized it was me.
And blood. I remember the blood. It was as if the bed had been dipped in a wide swath of dark crimson.
That has been all that I could remember of that day. But now, it all comes rushing back, a great black tide of despair and heartbreak.
My baby. Child of my womb. I have few memories of her, but they too have been locked behind this door.
“She stopped crying the moment they placed her in my arms. I remember her tiny hands, the even tinier fingernails, as she clutched my thumb in a surprisingly strong grip.” Her pink rosebud lips rooted around, eager to suckle and draw the warmth of mother’s milk into her tiny body.
We had but a hand span of moments together, my babe and I.
“I do not know how—from some unearthly power?—d’Albret heard her birthing cry and made his way to my chamber door. I looked up at his glowering form and bristling black beard and knew that if he let me keep this babe, I would do anything he asked of me. But even as I opened my mouth to tell him that, to give him my complete and unconditional surrender, he strode forward and grabbed the babe from my breast.
“She was so small, he could fit her head in one hand and it terrified me how carelessly he held her, but I said nothing for fear of antagonizing him. He carried her to the window, where he examined her small, dainty features in the light. I held my breath, hoping he was as bewitched by her perfect rosebud lips, her tiny little nose, and her dark blue eyes as I was.
“He lifted his eyes from the babe and turned them on me. ‘I had hoped the whelp was Julian’s.’
“In that moment, I saw what he meant to do. I struggled to get out of bed. ‘Stop him!’ I cried, but of course, none of the servants would dare cross him.” I look up into Beast’s stricken face. “Only Alyse. She was the only one who moved to save my baby. She threw herself at him, trying to grab the baby from his hands, but he struck her, knocking her to the ground, where she hit her head on the leg of the heavy wooden chair. I did not know until days later that she had died from the blow.
“Then he put his thick fingers around my baby’s frail neck and broke it. When he was done, he tossed the baby to the floor, and left the room.”
That was when the screaming started. And the blood, although I did not learn until later that it was my own birthing blood.
“After that, I remember very little. Strong, gentle hands pushing me back upon the bed. A sweet, bitter syrup being spooned down my throat. And then darkness. Blessed, blessed darkness. With not a drop of crimson in sight.
“I learned afterward that my father rode away two days later. That is what most likely saved my life, for old Nonne would never have taken the risks she did if my father were nearby. But he left me to the indifferent care of Madame Dinan, and she was not concerned that I would not rouse myself from my bed, nor eat a bite. But old Nonne was. She clucked and badgered, poked and scolded, trying so hard to coax me back to the land of the living that I thought I would go mad with it.”
Mayhap I did.
“Was it madness that possessed me to slip into the stable one night, take a thick, stout rope from a hook, and knot it firmly around my neck? Was it madness that caused me to jump from the hayloft, hoping to end my life?
“I say it was courage. I said it then and I say it now. I had found the courage to rid the world of at least one of the dark, twisted d’Albrets, for if I was my father’s daughter, then I was every bit the abomination he was, and I deserved death just as much as he did. If I could not kill him, I could at least rid the world of my own tainted presence.
“But it was not a long enough fall to break my neck, and as I lay dangling, wondering how long it would take me to die, old Nonne found me and cut me down.
“‘Go away,’ I told her. She could not stop me. I knew where there was more rope and I would devise a longer drop on my next attempt. There was nothing she could do to stop me, or so I thought. Until she spoke.
“‘He is not your father.’ Her words caused everything inside me to grow still, and for the first time in many days, a small bit of the despair lifted.
“She told me of my birth then, how I was my mother’s last chance to bear a son. Her first child—a daughter—was stillborn. But my mother outsmarted d’Albret, for while giving birth to me, she left with Death, her lover.
“I tried to follow them, and I came from the womb cold and blue, the birth cord wrapped twice around my neck, but Death rejected me. So old Nonne rubbed my limbs and blew into my mouth, trying to force some spark of life back into my cold, limp body. It eventually worked.”
“Is she the one who took you to the convent of Saint Mortain?” Beast asks. Somehow I am in his arms, standing with my back against his chest.
“Yes,” I say. “That is when I was sent to the convent. I was wild at first; I do not blame the nuns for being exasperated. But eventually, I grew calmer and came to believe that I had found sanctuary there. That I would have a purpose, a place where my dark talents could be put to good use. And they were, at first. I killed several traitors before they could betray us to the French. But then . . .” Here my voice falters, for the truth is, I still cannot believe it happened. “The abbess sent me back into d’Albret’s household. She said his aid—or lack thereof—had the power to turn the tides of the war, and I needed to be in place there to keep them apprised of d’Albret’s intentions.”
Beast says nothing, but his arms tighten around me, as if he would keep me safe even across the strands of time. “I argued with her. I fought. I begged and pleaded, but her mind and her heart were set. And then she dangled the one lure in front of me that she knew I would grasp for: she was certain Mortain would marque the count so that I could kill him. She even claimed Sister Vereda had Seen it. That is why I went, but it turned out that it was but another lie she told me.”
“Who was the babe’s father?” Beast asks.
“Josse, the blacksmith’s boy. Alyse tried to help us run away. She helped us plan and prepare, even thought up the excuses she would give when I did not show up for days. But d’Albret found out anyway.” I did not love Josse, but loved the freedom he offered me.
It was Julian who betrayed us to d’Albret.
“They rode Josse down like a dog on the road, then pierced him with a lance. They dragged me back tied in ropes because I fought them so.”
I can feel Beast’s anger moving through his limbs, but he says nothing. I focus on the fluttering ghosts who have drawn near as I talked. There is Alyse, who gave me Louise and laughter. And Françoise, who gave me Julian, my first friend, and a true brother before he became my enemy. My own mother, who gave me life, and Jeanne, whose story, I now realize, was no cautionary tale, but one of courage—the courage to face death rather than the horrors life held for her.
For all the atrocities d’Albret has committed—and there have been many—it is these innocents he swore to love and protect that have been betrayed most grievously. These are the ones that deserve to be avenged.
Any doubts that I held about Beast being strong enough to bear all the horrors of my past are gone. The last of my secrets has been spilled, and still he holds me in his arms as if he will never let me go.
Something wakes me. At first I think it is the silvery moonlight streaming in the window and falling across the bed. And then I hear a faint sound, like barren winter branches rustling in the wind. Although I do not hear my name precisely, I know that the sound is calling me, beckoning me closer, and I am afraid. Afraid it is the ghosts of d’Albret’s dead wives, calling me to account.
But the sound comes again, and I know I must go. Quietly, I lift the covers, swing my feet onto the floor, and rise from the bed.
The sound comes a third time, and it is as if there is a string tied to my heart that pulls me toward it. I step into my shoes, throw my cloak around my shoulders, and slip from the room.
It is the dead of night and all is quiet. For the first time that I can remember, I do not feel afraid in my father’s house. Whether it is because of Beast, who sleeps nearby, or because of the otherworldly voice beckoning me, I do not know. Perhaps I simply have nothing more to lose.
The castle corridors are empty, as is the great hall. There are a few sentries posted at the door, but since I am born of darkness, the shadows are my friend, and I use them to hide my passing.
Outside, the night has turned bitterly cold. Mortain’s freeze, the farmers call it, an unexpected cold snap that threatens the emerging spring crops.
And that’s when I know who is calling me. I pull my cloak closer and hasten my steps, not surprised when the rustling leads me to the cemetery.
The waning moon casts the graveyard in pale silver light, but I am drawn to the darkest corner where the shadows are the deepest. As I approach, a tall, dark figure emerges. He is dressed all in black and smells of the earth in early spring, when the fields have just been tilled. With a jolt that pierces my heart, I recognize my true father. Every doubt I have had that He existed, every fear that I have possessed that I am tainted by d’Albret’s dark blood, falls away from me in that moment. Like a lamb in a field that trots unerringly to its own mother, I know that I am His. At first, the wave of gratitude and humility this brings makes me want to fall on my knees before Him and bow my head. But as I look upon Him, the years of anguish and terror unfurl inside me, and a great whip of anger lashes out. “Now? You come to me now? Where were You all those times when I was small and terrified and truly needed You? Where were You when d’Albret cut down the innocent time and time again?”
Then, just as suddenly as it came, the anger is gone. “And why did You abandon me? When You came for my mother, why did You not take me with You?” The last question comes out in a whisper.
“It was your own mother’s wish, that you live.” When He speaks, His voice is like a cold wind from the north, bringing snow and frost. “She prayed not only to be delivered from her husband but that other women be spared her fate. That prayer brought Me to her so that I was there when you were born, to see you safely into this world as well as to carry your mother away, as I had promised.”