Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

“In the servant’s chapel.”

“And the priest?”

“I told him I wished to be alone with the body. He did not see fit to argue.”

“Wise man.”

We stare at each other a long moment, and then he takes a step back, his hands coming up to scrub at his face. “Saints teeth, Sybella! You scared ten years off my life back there.” Even though he has not raised his voice, the force of his words feels like a small windstorm.

“And you scared nearly twenty off of mine, riding with a handful of men into a force nearly five times your numbers.”

His hands snake out and grab my head, pulling me close for an urgent kiss—?a kiss filled with his fear and the terror he felt on my behalf. The kiss softens, allowing us both to take comfort from it. Slowly, he pulls away and rests his forehead on mine. “Your fighting is a wonder to behold. A thing of terrible beauty. No one can see that and doubt you are an instrument of the gods.” His pale blue eyes are alive with intensity.

“It is the same with you,” I whisper. “You become lit from within by some invisible light so that every movement, every stroke is full of grace.”

He draws me into his arms and holds me fiercely. “Some would call it brutality,” he murmurs.

“And they would be fools.”

Because I wish to stay like this forever, I force my head from his shoulder. “The duchess asked me to examine Captain Dunois to look for answers.”

With a brusque nod, he lets me go. “I assumed you would. I’ll stand guard while you do.”

I turn to the body. For that is how I must think of it—?the body. Not Captain Dunois, the man whose gruff courage and strategic skill had brought us through so much. Not as the man who had been far more father to Beast than his own. Not as the man who was one of the first to believe me, respect me, and value both my ideas and the sum of who I am.

A howl of deep, piercing grief threatens to escape, but I ruthlessly shove it back down, afraid the force of it will shatter me. There is no time for grieving. I must be every bit the daughter of Mortain, a ruthless student of death, in order to find out what has happened and who has taken this man from our midst too soon.

As if sensing how hard this will be for me, Dunois’s soul lies hidden and dormant. Or mayhap he is embarrassed by the examination his body must endure. Begging his soul’s forgiveness, I remove each item of his clothing, one by one, sniffing them carefully for any traces of poison. Even though he is over fifty, he is still thick with muscle, his body well seasoned with scars from his many battles. It takes over an hour to search among his old, healed wounds for signs of any new ones, but there are no scratches or punctures or any manner in which poison might have been introduced.

“Nothing.” My voice is harsh in the thick silence of the chapel. “There are no new wounds. And while some poisons mimic the sort of fit he had, they are not something that can simply be breathed in. They have to have been administered somehow.”

“Is it possible he simply died of apoplexy?” Beast’s voice is little more than a low grumble. In anyone else I would think it out of respect for both the dead and the church we occupy, but I suspect that for him he is afraid if he speaks too loudly, his voice will betray his emotions.

“What makes you ask that?”

He shrugs. “If he was not struck or shot by an arrow and there are no signs of poison, it is all that is left.”

I consider the possibility. “He has been working round the clock of late, and barely stopped to sleep or eat. Nor is he a young man.” I feel a chill against my ribs, as if some ghostly finger has poked me for calling him old. “But the timing of his death with the ambush is too convenient.”

Beast rubs his face. “I agree.”

“It cannot be a coincidence that just as we arrive in France, ready to take up residence in a court we know nearly nothing about, our most knowledgeable advisor, the one who has known every French nobleman and taken their measure over the last four decades, is struck dead. That the brilliant tactician who was responsible for chiseling this path to victory for the duchess has been silenced from ever giving her council again.” Not to mention the one man who could point out Beast’s father to him will never be able to do so now.

If that is a coincidence, then surely the gods are more enemy to us than the French.

* * *

When we emerge from the chapel, a servant waiting nearby escorts us to a private dining room where the rest of the duchess’s party are having a small supper. Chancellor Montauban, the Prince of Orange, former marshal Rieux, Father Effram, and the Bishop of Rennes sit around the table, the remains of a meal still spread out before them. As we enter the room, there is a pause—?a moment too long—?before they call out a welcome. That is when I become aware that they have all been scrubbed clean while Beast and I are still in our bloodstained travel clothes. “Take a seat. Eat something,” Chancellor Montauban says. “We are just arguing over the ambush and who might be behind it.”

As I slip into the chair that Beast holds out for me, I feel the silent stares of the others on me like fleeting darts. Father Effram gets up from the table, crossing to the ewer on the sideboard. Pulling a cloth from some hidden pocket, he dips it in the water.

“You do not think it Emperor Maximilian?” Beast asks as he takes the seat next to me.

The chancellor rubs his haggard face with his hand. “He is the most logical explanation. They were German soldiers.”

“They were mercenaries.” The Prince of Orange is barely able to keep a rein on his temper. “German mercenaries are for sale on every road crossing and street corner. It does not tell us who paid them.”

Father Effram returns to the table and slides back into his seat, handing the dampened cloth to me. Puzzled, I reach out to take it from him.

He motions to my left cheek. Understanding dawns, and I lift the cloth to my face, wiping at my cheek. I glance down at the white cloth, now covered with a smear of dark rust-colored blood.

“They could also have been German soldiers masquerading as mercenaries,” Beast counters. “Just because they were not wearing the Habsburg coat of arms and colors does not mean they were not sent by the emperor. It makes sense he would want to hide his part in the abduction for as long as possible, especially given his daughter’s precarious position.”

I carefully fold the cloth, closing my hand around it. When I look up, both Jean and Chancellor Montauban look away.

“Which is precisely why I do not believe he was behind it,” the prince continues. “He has too much at risk with Princess Marguerite still in the custody of the king.”

“But the king would not hurt her.” As the bishop speaks, he runs his fingers nervously over his rosary beads. “Everything I have ever heard or seen indicates that he is genuinely fond of the girl.”

“Then who?” Jean adds his braying voice to the mix. “Who else has anything to gain by abducting the duchess?”

“England?” the Prince of Orange offers.

“That is absurd,” scoffs Jean. “You are simply trying to deflect the blame from the emperor.”

The prince narrows his eyes dangerously. “Are you questioning my loyalty?”

Rieux thrusts his head forward to argue further, but the bishop interrupts before they can come to blows. “But to what end?” he asks.

The prince shrugs. “To prevent the marriage.”

“But at the cost of war with France?” the bishop asks. “Surely England knew that would be the final result of such an abduction.”

The prince reaches for the stem of his goblet. “They have long been looking for an excuse to press their piteous claim to the French throne. Perhaps they see this as an opportunity.” He takes a sip of wine. “A better question might be what did the emperor hope to gain?”

His brow furrowed in deep thought, Beast leans forward and plants his elbows on the table, causing the plates and silverware to jiggle slightly. “Did the emperor hope to rescue his wife, or .

. .” His next words come more slowly. “To give the accusations he’s been making against France the appearance of truth?”

Montauban, too, leans forward. “You mean his accusations that the duchess had been abducted in an effort to delegitimize the union?”

Beast nods, and everyone falls silent.

“So you see.” Rieux’s voice is smug. “All roads appear to lead to the emperor.”

I delicately clear my throat. “I may be able to shed some additional light on the situation, or else muddy the waters beyond all comprehension.”

Reluctantly, their gazes turn toward me. That is when I understand that I make them uncomfortable now. They have always known I was an assassin—?and accepted it. Or so they thought. But now that I sit here with our enemies’ blood splattered on my gown, now that they have seen me kill with their own eyes, they feel differently. Knowing something and seeing it are very different things.