My gaze seeks out Alips, and I wonder if the charcoal dust will fool her in broad daylight. To my relief, she is not among our group of travelers. I recognize some of them from the village—?Blavot the chandler, as tall and thin as the candles he makes. Herbin the butcher and his wife, Jacquette. The miller’s wife, Matilde, is among us, wearing a furred tunic and carrying a bow and arrow. As is Rogier the stonemason, who has been working on the chateau remodels that Angoulême has undertaken. But no other household servants that I can see. Best of all, no one’s gaze lingers overlong on me or Maraud.
It is an easy group, talking and laughing as they walk. Some carry bundles attached to their backs. Others have their masks tucked up under their arms. The stonemason pushes a handcart full of casks and drums, while Herbin drives a wagon pulled by two oxen. A handful of matrons sit on the back end, their feet dangling over the side. A various assortment of children tag along, like a long, wiggling, giggling tail.
A number of them take great sport in following Maraud, the terrifying wolf’s head of his cape hanging down his back, leering at them upside down. Occasionally one grows bold enough to run forward and tug at his tail before quickly darting away with a squeal of terrified laughter. I glance up at Maraud to see how he is taking this, my words shriveling before I can utter them.
It is the first time I have seen him in good light. This morning, even as he gazed at my face, I avoided his. Besides, the sun was streaming in through the window directly into my eyes.
In spite of his overlong hair and his beard—?which should be bushy and matted from his time in captivity but instead manages to accentuate his strong features—?he is . . . Rutting figs! There is no word for it but handsome.
He turns to me just then, our gazes meeting. “Can you feel it?” he whispers.
“Feel what?” Mortified at being caught, the word comes out hoarse, croaked.
He leans in closer, and the lips I have just been admiring form the word: “Freedom.”
Released from my embarrassment, I huff out a breath. “Yes. I do.”
He smiles at me, a flash of strong white teeth against the darkness of his beard, then grows serious. “And for that, I thank you.”
His sense of indebtedness sits as uncomfortably as a nail-studded shirt. “Perhaps you have simply traded one prison for another,” I say lightly.
He looks at me as if he knows better—?as if he knows me better—?than that. Ignoring my provocation, he pulls his wolf skin closer against the crisp chill of the morning. “So,” he lowers his voice. “Were you sent to rescue me?”
Now that I know who he is, the question makes more sense. “Assassins don’t rescue moldering prisoners.”
An odd expression appears on his face. “Were you sent to kill me?”
I stare back at him. Was I? Was that why I heard his heart beating that day? Should I have grabbed a torch and examined him for a marque? The thought never crossed my mind at the time. It was too far outside what the abbess had instructed us to do. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes. There is that.” He grins. It is wide and welcoming, inviting all who see it to be drawn into his net. Surely it is as dangerous as his sword arm. “Perhaps my charms swayed you from your purpose and you chose to rescue me instead.”
Does he truly think me so weak and softhearted? Fool. It is just my luck to have stumbled upon the one mercenary lacking in cynicism.
“If you must thank anyone,” I tell him, my words as tart as an unripe apple, “it should be the god of mistakes, for surely it was Salonius himself who led me to you.”
He blows on his hands, then rubs them together. “Maybe the god of mistakes wishes me to live.”
I slip my own hands inside my sleeves to keep them warm as a thought occurs to me. “Are you a bastard?” It would explain his earlier comments about his family.
“No.” His face grows hard. “Not a bastard.”
“And yet you joined the mercenaries rather than fight with your father’s men.” Another thought occurs to me. Did he suspect his father’s honor was in question, even then?
He shrugs, but the movement is stiff and wooden. “By the time I was born, my father already had three sons to carry on his good name. A fourth was merely one more mouth to feed, one more youth to train and supply.” He grins, mostly to himself. “He wanted me to join the clergy. I refused.” That explains his deep faith in the Nine. “Since he would not teach me the art of soldiering, I ran off to join the ranks of mercenaries.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
The same age I was when I was sent to the French court. “Why so eager to fight?”
He looks puzzled by the question. “Because I am good at it. With three older brothers steeped in the arts of soldiering and warfare, I presented a useful target. By the time I was twelve, I had acquired most of their knowledge, along with a burning desire to learn what they could not teach me so I could use it against them.”
Before I can even smile at his confession—?it is so like my own thinking—?his face shifts again, growing somber as he falls silent. That is when I remember that all his brothers are dead.
He stares unseeing at the road ahead of us for a long moment before speaking again. “Does Angoulême know you are an assassin?”
My relief at seeing the shadows disappear from his face is replaced by annoyance. I would be happiest if I never had to think of Count Angoulême again. “You should conserve your strength for the long walk ahead.”
“I told you, I will keep up. Why are you evading the question?”
“No,” I lie. “Angoulême does not know I am an initiate of Mortain.” He has coaxed too many answers out of me already. “I am simply a ward, entrusted to his care.”
“Will he come looking for you?”
“He would if he knew I was gone, but he will be at Blois until Epiphany.”
Maraud frowns. “Surely someone will notice you are missing.”
Rutting figs, he is persistent. “No. I . . . made arrangements.”
He stops walking so suddenly that one of the young boys trailing behind bumps into him, squealing in delighted terror. “What sort of arrangements?”
I bring my arms closer to my body, wishing for a thicker coat. “It’s no concern of yours.”
“I beg to differ. If they come looking for you, they will find me.”
I squint into the distance and study the nearby fields. “I faked my own death.”
His regard feels heavy against my skin. “Will that not cause them heartache?”
I think of Louise and Juliette. Of Count Angoulême and the babe who is not mine. “No more than your disappearance caused your family.”
It is unkind and not even true—?his father betrayed Brittany in an attempt to rescue him—?but it has its desired effect, and he falls silent. He shifts his gaze to the north, toward the faint roar of the Charente River in the distance.
“So you never had a sister?”
The question catches me like a kick to the gut. It not only knocks the air from my lungs, but rips off a scab that has only just begun to form. I use every ounce of will I possess to resurrect the thick walls around my heart. “My sister is—?was—?real.”
Something warm brushes my shoulder, bringing an unfamiliar sense of comfort. I look down to see Maraud’s hand. He gives a brief squeeze of compassion before removing it. I do not know what surprises me more—?his touch or that the sense of comfort remains long after his hand is gone.
Chapter 58
Sybella
y sisters’ presence seems to cheer the queen somewhat, reminding her of her own sweet Isabeau. She is in desperate need of good cheer right now, for the king has not visited her since their disastrous walk in the garden. It casts a pall over the winter revelry. Even the king appears out of sorts.
In truth, it is only the regent who seems merry. I do not know if the king told her of what transpired in the garden, or if she simpl
y sees there has been a breach between them and that is enough for her.
As we draw near the week mark with no visit from the king, my unease grows. Will he ever return? Is he seeking comfort elsewhere? With the Princess Marguerite? How easy to seek comfort in the company of someone who has been raised to be his wife since she was three and trained to reflect his own glory back at him. She would never dare to place demands or ask to govern a duchy. She would never dare to be a person separate from him or his be-damned crown.
All of these questions give more urgency to my search for the convent’s moles. Since it is Advent and the rest of the castle is caught up in the celebration of the Christmas season, I am able to de precisely that.