Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

He stares back, and I realize he possesses a fair amount of iron of his own. He looks up at the grate, then back down at his small prison, scanning the whole of it before returning his gaze to me. The faint light from the torch does not reach his eyes.

“If you cannot tell truth from fantasy, there is no point in talking,” I say.

“But of course. You are correct. Forgive my mistake.”

“I am glad we understand each other. Now tell me why you are in here.” My fingers tighten around the handle of my knife. Before we go any further, I must know how dangerous he is.

“Because I fought for the losing side.”

“Which side was that?”

“Brittany’s.”

“That cannot be the whole of it. Not everyone who fought on Brittany’s side has been thrown down a hole to rot away in oblivion.”

“No,” he agrees. “Some were slain on the battlefield.”

“You mean killed in battle?”

He adjusts his sleeves. “Yes, that is what I mean.”

“Why are you here? Did you commit some atrocity?”

His entire face hardens. “There were many atrocities on the battlefield, but none were committed by me.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

He does not move, but it feels as if he takes a step toward me. “If I were given to atrocities, I would already have overpowered you, strangled you with your rope, and be halfway to . . . Where did you say we are?”

“I didn’t.” I pull the knife from the folds of my skirt so it is visible.

His eyes shift to my blade. “But, since I am not given to atrocities, I have done none of those things. Besides, I would never cause harm to one who has brought me more comfort and kindness—” He shuts his mouth abruptly, remembering my condition. “Forgive my blabbering, demoiselle.”

He learns quickly. I nod in approval. “Now that we are clear, I have a proposition for you.” Even though he does not move, I can feel his interest deepen. “I need a sparring partner.”

A single harsh croak emerges from his throat. At first I think he is laughing at me, until I recognize he is coughing. To be certain, I point my knife directly at him for the first time. “I will not be laughed at, and certainly not by a sack of bones that is little more than rat bait.”

“I was not laughing. It is wretchedly damp in here, and my lungs do not like it. Even so, you must admit it is not every day that a prisoner in an oubliette receives such an offer.”

“You are mocking me.”

“I am mocking the circumstances in which I find myself. It is certainly the most novel proposition I have ever received from a woman.” He folds his arms, studying me in earnest now, taking in my height and the breadth of my shoulders. “So you wish me to teach you swordplay?”

Figs! Are all men truly so lack-witted? “No.” In one fluid motion, I retrieve the short sword strapped to my back, whip it forward in a figure eight so that the point of it nicks the back of his right hand, then his left, before coming to rest in the hollow of his throat. “I need someone to spar with.”

He eyes the sword. “Clearly, I misunderstood.” His manner sharpens with intrigue and . . . mayhap even admiration. “If I do as you ask, will you help me escape?”

Finally he is ready to negotiate. “No, that is not part of the proposition.”

He shrugs and begins to turn away, but I know a bargaining tactic when I see it. “You assume that I have the power to give you what you want. I do not.”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Who are you that you are allowed access to swords and freedom to roam the dungeons at whim, yet do not have the means to help me escape?”

I smile without humor. “I have a unique position within the household.”

He turns his gaze back to my sword, appraising, coveting.

“You will not be given a true sword.” I am not so stupid as to hand a battle-scarred prisoner, even one so weakened as he, a real sword and pray that he will not skewer me with it. “But a wooden practice one from the garrison.”

“And if I refuse?”

I shrug. “I will leave and not come back. You will have had a bath and some food for your trouble and may return to your slow and tedious dying.” My words are harsh and bleak, but they are also the truth. I have nothing else to offer him. Giving him his freedom would put me at even greater risk and gain me nothing. Besides, I have no true knowledge of who he is or whether he is even safe to let loose upon the countryside. This is the limit of my trade. “What have you to lose? You have been thrown down here to rot, forgotten by all except those who are just cruel enough to taunt you with the promise of life.”

“Is that not what you’re doing?”

His words catch me off-guard. “No! I am giving you a chance, buying you some time. What you will be able to purchase with it, I cannot say.”

He looks down at his hands, clenching them, then opening them again. I raise the tip of my sword in case he is considering trying to strangle me.

When finally he looks up to meet my gaze, he gives a single nod. “When you return, bring the wooden sword as well.”

Chapter 29

Sybella

wo days later, every one of my senses is still on alert, fully expecting the regent to slither out from under some nearby rock despite her claims that she would ride on ahead of us.

But she does not.

I still cannot decide if her actions were in retaliation for the abandoned plan between the Dukes of Brittany and Orléans to set aside her sister, or the opening salvo of a larger, broadscale attack. And is the attack directed at the duchess, or at a potential alliance between her and the Duke of Orléans?

“What is gnawing at you this morning?” Aeva steers her horse alongside mine. While she appears casual enough, the depth of her scrutiny is unsettling.

I glance about to make certain no one else can hear, then quietly tell her of the regent’s visit to the duchess’s chambers. When I have finished, she gives a disgusted toss of her head. “Women like her are worse than the men they serve. They cling hardest to the very rules that cage them, ruthlessly ensuring that all other women are equally trapped.”

Her words ring true. D’Albret’s fifth wife was much the same way—?more vigilant than d’Albret himself in restricting the women of his household. Especially his daughters.

“A pox on all of them,” I mutter.

A shout rings out from the front of the line. The regent is my first thought, even though I know it unlikely. I crane my neck, trying to peer through the rows of horsemen to see what is happening.

We are in a gently sloping valley where two riverlets run nearly side by side. Captain Dunois and the French guards in the vanguard have just reached the first bridge. The rest of our party is strung along the road like a trail of goslings: the mounted councilors, including the duchess, who rides pillion with Chancellor Montauban, followed by Beast and the queen’s guard, the litters, the priests on their mules, and the baggage train lagging behind.

A copse of trees perches atop the ridge like a dark green crown. The riverlets are swollen with the recent rains, and the sound of their gentle rushing fills the valley, accompanied by the creak of leather harness, the jingle of tack, and the low hum of voices. Nothing appears out of place. Just as I wonder if one of the soldiers fell from the bridge into the river, there is a second shout. Captain Dunois pulls hard on his reins and stands up in his stirrups.

My heart kicks into a gallop as I turn to scan the fields on either side of us, but there is no sign of attack. The trees on top of the slope are far enough away that no arrow could reach us.

Even so, my muscles tense, readying for something I cannot yet see. I press my knees to my horse, urging him forward. Beast, too, has broken from the line and is riding around the others toward the first bridge.

I kick my horse into a canter, trying to catch up to Beast when a third, louder, shout goes up. Captain Dunois places his right hand on his chest and plumm

ets from his horse.

There is a brief moment of stillness, as if we are a tableau frozen by an unexpected winter frost.

Beast wheels his horse around. “To the duchess!” he shouts.

Riding hard for the bridge, I glance over my shoulder to see the queen’s guard draw into a tight, fortifying circle around Chancellor Montauban and the duchess. The Prince of Orange and Jean de Rieux draw their swords as well.

My eyes scan the nearby trees again, but no arrows rain down on us, no horses or foot soldiers emerge.

Then I am at the bridge. I leap off my horse, toss my reins to the nearest knight, and break into a run. My feet thud on the wooden planks, nearly drowning out the sound of Dunois’s heartbeat.