Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

Her eyes flash with annoyance. “I don’t. But you told Pierre you would see to our safety. You claim that is why we are here. But it was only under your protection that I have ever been in danger.”

Her words find their target as effectively as any booted foot or clenched fist, and I let go of her hair. It is better to tell her the truth? List for her all the ways she would be in danger if she stayed?

Do I tell her that I was younger than she is when Pierre first kissed me? Younger than she is when I gave him the scar across his eyebrow when he tried it a second time?

That I was only a year older than she when he first came scratching at my bedroom door? Of the terror I felt in those moments? Or the extreme measures I took to deter him? Measures that haunt me still.

No. I will not rip away the few remaining shreds of her innocence from her eyes.

“I can understand why you would think that. But as you yourself saw, even being the duchess of Brittany cannot guarantee safety from attack. As you also saw, your safety was adequately provided for, as you and Louise both survived the encounter.”

“And we got to go to the wedding.” Louise’s voice is tentative, eager to soothe.

Charlotte spares her a scornful glance. “We did not go to the wedding. We watched from the gallery above. It is not the same thing at all.”

“And yet,” I remind her, “you were the two youngest allowed anywhere near the ceremony.”

She shrugs one shoulder; whether that means true or who cares, I do not know.

She is at a hard age, stuck in the body of a child but poised on the verge of womanhood, and all of that further muddied and made more turbulent by the nature of our family and her upbringing. When and how far this small green apple falls from the family tree is anyone’s guess, but I will not give up on her. Not yet. “But, you are right,” I say briskly. “I should do more to see to both your comfort and your safety now that we have arrived. And your lessons,” I add.

She glares at me.

“Ah! Do not be so quick to complain! This is one lesson I think you’ll enjoy.” I take the small knife from the chain at my waist and hold it out to her, praying she does not grab it and poke me with it.

She stares at it, her eyes both wary and greedy. “What am I to do with that?”

“Learn how to use it,” I tell her. “You’re of an age when you can begin learning to see to your own safety. Aeva and Tola can show you how to use it when I am not here.”

Louise eyes the knife anxiously and retreats to Tephanie’s side. “Do I have to have one?”

“No, sweeting. Not until you are old enough and want one.”

She frowns. “Does Charlotte want one?”

I turn back to Charlotte, waiting.

“Yes,” she says at last. “I do.”

“Very well.” I lower my voice to naught but a whisper. “The first rule is that if you ever use it on Louise, I will make you sorrier than you can even imagine.”

It is the first time I have ever threatened her, or even promised punishment. She looks at me, her chin set at a defiant angle, but something in my face convinces her that defiance in this matter is unwise. “Of course I won’t.”

I nod. “Of course. But it is always best to be certain.”

* * *

The king’s absence eats at me. I want—?need—?to know where he is, what excuse he could possibly have for not being here.

I want to know if I—?and the queen—?have been duped by the warm welcome he provided at the wedding or if he is simply thoughtless.

Or perhaps there truly is some urgent matter of state. If so, I would like to know that as well.

Because the royal couple’s time together at Plessis-lès-Tours is meant to be a chance to get to know one another away from the demands of the full court and affairs of state, the castle is relatively empty.

With so few people about, it is much easier to sense heartbeats and choose a path that avoids the gaggle of the regent’s ladies bustling in and out of the queen’s apartments. I head purposefully in the direction of the king’s chambers, wanting to ensure the regent did not simply lie. But as I pause outside the ornate double doors, it is clear there is only one heartbeat and it is that of a sleepy, patient valet, waiting to undress the king when he returns.

I retrace my steps through the palace, following the same route the regent used to usher us in. At the foot of the stairs is a door that leads to the courtyard in which we arrived, and a second short passageway that, by the sound and smells coming from it, must lead to the palace kitchens. I edge carefully forward, wrap myself in the deepening shadows, and listen. From the activity level and casual conversation, it appears the king did not dine here tonight. Nor does the kitchen staff seem put out by this, so clearly his absence was expected. Someone is giving instructions to the cook for tomorrow’s dinner when a page arrives announcing that the king has returned.

My heart quickening, I pull back into the shadows and wait to make sure no one from the kitchen comes this way before retracing my steps back to the courtyard. I find a dark corner, tuck myself in, and wait.

After nearly an hour of waiting, I finally hear the steady clop of a large group of horses. When the clattering of their hooves ceases, the steward hurries forward to greet the king. “I trust you had a pleasant ride, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, I have. Has the queen arrived?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. She and her party arrived over an hour ago and have been made comfortable for the night.”

Their voices shift as they move away from me, closer to the palace’s main entrance. I turn my attention to the rumble of talk from the rest of the party as they dismount and relinquish their horses into the care of the stable hands. I have little patience for stealth and spying. If I had my preference, I’d slip up behind one of the king’s men, place the edge of my knife against his throat, and demand he tell me where they have been and why, instead of lurking in dark corners like a rat begging crumbs.

A number of men follow immediately after the king, but a few of them linger. Once all the others have dispersed, their tone changes from deferential to almost mocking.

“Now, that was a fool’s errand.”

“Nonsense. That was chivalry at its finest.” The claim is followed by a round of laughter.

“That was a guilty conscience, that was,” a dour voice interjects.

“I haven’t heard that much weeping and wringing of hands since that troubadour from Paris was here last winter.”

“And that was before the Princess Marguerite started talking!”

Another round of guffaws.

The dour voice speaks again. “Eh, they should return the girl to her father and be done with it. It’s bad enough his feelings for the queen caused him to break his vows to the princess. It is even less honorable to string her along like this.”

There is the sound of a thump as someone claps him on the back. “This is politics, man! The princess is a most excellent pawn in the disputes between Maximilian and the crown. You can’t expect them to hand over such a useful tool without maximizing its advantage.”

“So much for chivalry,” the dour fellow mutters. “The princess deserves better than that.”

“Hush! You don’t want anyone to hear you talk like that. Go sleep it off and be ready to greet your new queen tomorrow.”

The knot of five men passes but two arm lengths in front of me. I hold my breath and press myself closer to the wall at my back, giving thanks for the deep shadows.

It is only when they have safely passed and entered the palace that I let myself absorb the full meaning of what I have just heard. Marguerite has still not been returned to her father. Which gives Maximilian even more reason to retaliate against France, perhaps even attempt to abduct the new queen to ransom for his daughter.

And that is the least disturbing news I heard. The king was visiting his former betrothed. On the very night he should be welcoming his new bride.

That cann

ot bode well. Does his heart still belong to Marguerite? Or is it simple regret? Or something far more sinister that speaks to an intricate plot that could end up doing great harm to the queen?

A heartbeat behind me scuttles my thoughts. My knife is out of its sheath and in my hand before I turn around.

“Usually you can tell it is me.” Beast sounds slightly put out.

“I could tell it was you.”

He glances pointedly at the knife.

“After I drew,” I concede, returning it to its sheath.

He looks to the right, then the left, before taking my hand and pulling me into the shelter of the stable wall, where we will not be seen. “What are you doing out here?”

“Answers as to why the king was not available to greet the queen will not come knocking on my chamber door. I must seek them out.”

He stares down at me a long, hard moment. “Please don’t tell me you were spying on the king.”

I lean up against the wall of his chest. “Very well. I will not tell you that.”

He closes his eyes and appears to be counting. Or praying. I cannot tell which. “Would you like to know what I have learned?” I offer, trying to distract him from that line of thought.

He scrubs his face with his hand. “Yes, but only so if they hang you for treason I can know whether or not the information was worth it.”

“My, you are in a dark humor tonight.”