Rutting goats! “I thought you were spending Christmas up north,” I say.
“I was, but was worried about you and Louise and changed my mind.” Of all the times for Angoulême to be struck by consideration for others.
I force a laugh as I carry the saddle over to Gallopine. “Is that why you need reinforcements?” Uneasy at the sudden tension in the room, Gallopine stomps her foot and raises her tail as I settle the saddle onto her back.
“When I saw you with the mummer troupe, I was uncertain you were with them by choice.”
I toss him a scornful glance. “You believe a handful of mummers could force me to perform against my will?” I shake my head. “Have no worries. I chose to travel with them.” None of the choices you offered me held any appeal, I almost tell him, then stop as another idea takes root. “Actually, I was coming to find you.”
“What?”
“Louise and the babe are not well. Louise did not want to bother you, and your men would not let me leave on my own. This was the only way I could think to fetch you.”
There is a whisper of movement, a rasp of sound behind him, but I keep my eyes on his face. He takes a step into the stall, stopping when Gallopine lifts her rear leg. “What is wrong with the babe? Has a doctor been sent for?” His eyes narrow with suspicion. “And why didn’t you wait in the hall to give me this news?”
“I did not say it was the only reason I am here.”
There is a second movement, this one loud enough that Angoulême turns around, reaching for the weapon at his hip.
But too late. An arm crashes down, bringing the hilt of a sword to connect solidly with the back of Angoulême’s skull.
The count’s eyes roll up in his head, and he crumples into the straw. Behind him, his two companions are similarly laid out on the ground. I glance up at Maraud. “I thought you were hiding.”
“I was. That last group we passed were men I’d fought with before. Didn’t want them to see my face.” He reaches down and relieves one of the soldiers of his belt and sword and fastens them around his hips. Then he kneels down to retrieve a second sword from the other unconscious guard.
“Two?”
“I’ve been without weapons for a year. I will not pass up any I find lying around.”
I shake my head and turn back to Angoulême’s crumpled figure. I feel nothing. No, that is not true. I feel relief. “Is he dead?”
“Saints, no!” Maraud sounds insulted. “He is just out for a while. Although, depending on the thickness of his skull, it might not be for very long.”
“Then let’s quit talking.” I nimbly step over the fallen bodies and lead Maraud to the next stall. “This is your horse—?Mogge.”
At the sound of my voice, Mogge’s head swings around. I put out my hand, her velvet nose taking in my scent. She keeps snuffling, her muzzle swinging to my left, looking for someone else.
Understanding comes like a blow. Looking for her mistress—?for Margot. Just when I am certain my heart is fully protected, some new sliver of pain finds its way in.
Maraud reaches around me to let Mogge sniff at him. Interested in this new scent, Mogge steps closer and lets him whisper something in her ear as he rubs her forehead. The quickness with which she takes to him stings a little. “Her tack is on the wall. Get her saddled so we can leave before Angoulême wakes up.”
Back in Gallopine’s stall, I retrieve my pack and fish out one of the small silver boxes I carry. Just a tiny bit to ensure the count sleeps until we are well away. I take a pinch between my fingers, lean close to his face, and blow. I hold my own breath and quickly step away, moving on to his two fallen guards to do the same. Just as I am putting the lid back onto the silver box, Maraud emerges from the stall, leading Mogge. He glances from my hands down to the soldiers. “You poisoned them?”
“Only a little. Just to ensure they cannot raise an alarm until we are well clear of the city.”
He shoots me one of his piercing looks that are as effective as any arrow in exposing my weaknesses, then takes Mogge’s reins and leads her toward the end of the row. I stuff the night whispers in my pack, take Gallopine’s reins, and follow. Or try to. When I reach the end of the stalls, Mogge comes to a complete halt. Next to her, Maraud is still as stone.
Scowling in annoyance, I start to step around him, but am halted by a newly familiar voice. “Well, Anton Crunard. I was right. It was you who taught the mummer girl that trick.”
Figs! We are having Salonius’s own luck tonight.
“I have taught many girls many tricks, as have you.” Maraud’s voice is different—?deeper, louder.
Pierre d’Albret laughs, growing more at ease. “That is one of the things I have always enjoyed about you, Crunard. I never know what will come out of your smart mouth.”
He does not mean smart as a compliment.
I inch my way to the other side of Mogge, trying to peer around her into the main corridor. Pierre d’Albret’s head is tilted at an arrogant angle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicks in my direction and runs the length of my body. It feels like a snake has just slithered down my spine. Four men-at-arms stand just behind him. “Why are you cavorting with mummers? Though it has been a while since I have seen you, I would never have guessed you’d fall that far.”
“It’s been since the battle of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier, I believe. Although, come to think of it”—?Maraud tilts his head and rubs his chin with the back of his sword hand—?“perhaps it was even longer than that, because I never did see you on the field there.” The challenge in his voice is unmistakable.
Pierre’s face tightens. “Careful, Crunard,” he says softly. “I would hate to have to teach you manners. Especially in front of the girl.”
In the tense silence that follows, I wonder if I can reach for the night whispers without calling d’Albret’s or his men’s attention to my movements.
“Come, Pierre.” Maraud’s voice is more jocular now. “You know I have no manners. You cannot have forgotten that much about me.”
D’Albret laughs and takes a step closer. “Where have you been? First I heard you had fallen on the battlefield. Rumor was you’d been taken. But here you are, cavorting with mummers and stealing horses.”
Maraud shrugs. “I was taken. Now I am free.”
Pierre glances at me once more. “And looking for more suitable employment, surely. I have work that you will be most interested in.”
“As you can see, I already have a job.”
“I think you’ll find mine to be of personal interest to you.”
I can almost feel Maraud’s hackles rising. “What personal interest is that?”
“It is far too sensitive to speak of in a stable, but we could use a man of your skills.”
“As I said, I already have a job, but I’m honored that you thought of me.”
D’Albret’s e
yes darken as he weighs a score of ugly options. “You have always been saddled with that damnable family honor.” I hold my breath, wondering if d’Albret will throw Maraud’s father’s treachery in his face, but he does not.
“As soon as you have finished this job, if you’re still alive, come find me. I promise you, you will be most intrigued. If not for your own sake, then for your brothers’.?”
Maraud grows completely still, the stillness of a predator before it attacks. Surely he cannot think to take on all five men. Even so, I ease my hand down to my belt and unbuckle the leather strap on my sword.
“I will be in touch,” Maraud finally says, his voice tight. “You may rest assured.” The words are no promise, but a threat.
Pierre nods, his reactions as much a part of some silent dance as our mummery. “I look forward to it.” He steps aside, motioning for his men to do so as well. With our way finally clear, Maraud does not move. Saints! He does not know the way out. “To the left,” I murmur.
D’Albret and his men remain in place, silent and threatening, while Maraud leads Mogge toward the back of the stable. By the time we reach the door, my entire body is drenched in nervous sweat. Once we get it closed behind us, I lean against the thick wood, relieved to have something solid between us and d’Albret.
I have not taken but three paces into the cool air when Mogge comes to another abrupt standstill, this time rearing back and pulling sharply on her reins. I leap to the side. As I struggle to steer Gallopine clear of her flailing hooves, Maraud shoves Mogge’s reins into my hand. “Stay here.” He draws his sword and turns, launching himself forward.
Still fumbling with the reins, I crane my neck in time to see Maraud drive his sword into the chest of a man whose own sword is raised high in attack. My heart’s rhythm shifts, racing in time with the dying man’s. He is one of five men blocking our path. Maraud places his foot on the impaled man’s stomach and pulls his sword out in time to run a second attacker through.