Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

My heart lurches like a drunken man, beating more erratically. Gut wounds are a long, ugly way to die.

The third man is upon Maraud, holding his enormous broadsword in a two-handed grip. Distressed by the smell of blood, the horses neigh and pull on the reins. Swearing, I drag them toward the nearest post.

When I look over my shoulder, the third man is down, but a fourth comes at Maraud, swinging a mace.

Maraud grins maniacally. Just as the man swings, he crouches low. While the mace is still mid-arc, Maraud thrusts his sword high, trapping the chain. It whips once, twice around the blade, then Maraud yanks it out of the other man’s hand. As his attacker reaches for his own sword, Maraud draws the second one from his hip and runs him through with it.

My chest feels as if it will explode as it is filled with yet another heartbeat, and my fingers work frantically to secure the reins tightly enough that the panicking horses cannot bolt.

The fifth man is upon him now, this one bearing a battle-ax. Maraud grabs both the blade and the hilt of his sword, using it to block the bone-jarring blow. A blade cannot hold long against such force. I jerk on the reins with all my strength to assure the knot cannot be pulled loose.

A sixth man appears—?where are they coming from?—?walking purposefully toward Maraud, a sword in each hand. Maraud’s back is to him, but even if he could see, he has his hands full keeping his current opponent from splitting his skull.

I snatch my dagger from my left sleeve. It has been months since I have practiced so I do not let myself think, but simply throw and trust that years of training will hold true.

The dagger whips through the air and catches the sixth man on the side of his head. He ducks and swears, dropping one of his swords as his hand comes up to stanch the gush of blood.

There is a long single moment when everyone—?Maraud, his attacker, and the man now missing his ear—?is surprised, and immobile with it.

Maraud recovers first. He grabs his hilt with both hands and drives it into the faint hollow just above his attacker’s collarbone.

The man drops his ax and falls to his knees, the movement releasing the sword from its bloody scabbard. Maraud spins around to face the one-eared man and finishes him off with a quick, clean thrust between his ribs.

Surely my heart was never meant to beat with the rhythm of so many dying men. It feels as if an entire herd of galloping horses is trapped inside my chest. With Maraud’s gasping and the thundering heartbeats, it takes a moment to register the sound of clapping behind us.

I whirl around to find Pierre d’Albret leaning in the doorway, applauding.

Maraud wipes his brow, leaving a bloody smear. “Why?”

Pierre shrugs. “I needed to see if you’d lost your edge. You haven’t. When you are finished here”—?he glances at me—?“find me. Do not make me come looking for you.”

With that, he and his remaining guards disappear back into the stable, leaving Maraud and me surrounded by the groans of his dying men as we try to catch our breath.

“It was an ambush?”

Maraud nods. “With that particular snake, you must always check for two heads.”

“Is he truly allowing us to leave,” I ask, “or merely waiting to stab us in the back?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

* * *

Once we clear the sally port, I can no longer feel the heartbeats of the dying men. Have they passed from this life into the next, or am I simply out of range? Just one of a dozen questions I have.

We ride in silence, grateful to be free of the city and eager to put as much distance as possible between us and d’Albret. As we gallop down the hill toward the valley below, we startle a flock of crows from the branch where they’ve been sleeping. As one, they spread their black wings and rise up into the night sky. It is not a crow feather, but an entire flock of them. Surely it is a sign that the Nine smile on this venture.

As disastrous as our escape was, it did not cost us too much time. “How long a ride is it to Tours?” I ask.

“I thought you said we were going to Poitiers?”

“I lied.”

“Of course you did,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Five days’ hard ride—?with luck and the weather on our side.”

“Very well.” I put my heels to Gallopine’s flanks and send her cantering down the road.

There is barely enough moonlight to see by, but the road is straight, and our mounts are fresh. Besides, it is Christmas night, so we have it to ourselves.

Twice, Maraud steers us off the road to wait among the trees. I say nothing the first time, but by the second time, my desire to keep moving makes it impossible to hold my tongue. “This is costing us too much time.”

“And I wish to get there alive.”

“You said d’Albret was headed to Périgord. You think he will follow us instead?”

He reaches down and gives Mogge an absentminded rub. “If it suits him.”

“Why does he want you to join him so badly?” If the animosity between them were not so thick, I would worry they were involved in some plot.

“I don’t know. But if d’Albret is involved, I want no part of it.”

Gallopine paws impatiently at the forest floor beneath her hooves. I allow her to inch forward, hoping Maraud will take the hint. “He insisted it would be of personal interest to you.”

“He was wrong.”

I almost ask if it could be about his father, but do not have the stomach for breaking that news to him. Not when he has finally gained a measure of freedom. There will be time enough for him to learn that ugly truth.

“What of Angoulême?” he asks as Mogge draws alongside me. “Will he follow you?”

“Not with the news about his babe.”

Maraud’s gaze is piercing. “Was it true?”

There is no one on the road behind us, so I allow Gallopine back onto it. “It was necessary. He needed a pressing reason not to follow me. Now he will hurry to check on his wife and unborn child instead. Why so concerned about Angoulême’s babe? He was letting you rot in an oubliette.”

“I’m not concerned about the babe. I’m trying to ascertain the extent of your ruthlessness.”

Chapter 67

Sybella

hen I reach the servants’ chapel, Beast is already there. “What happened?” His voice is rough. Others might think it anger, but I know it is fear that has been gnawing at him since we returned.

“There was an assassin.”

His brow furrows, as if he cannot quite fathom what I am saying. “On the hunt today?”

I nod. “Waiting for me in the woods.”

He takes me by the arm, the solid warmth of his grip grounding me, and pulls me deep into the chapel so that we are standing in the corner farthest from the door. “How do you know he was there for you?”

“Because . . .” I didn’t, I realize. “I didn’t know he was there for me until I had killed him.” You are a d’Albret. You lie like one. You kill like one. Pierre’s words echo inside my head, as sharp and clear as a bell. Those words keep me from looking into Beast’s face. From taking comfort in the familiar lump of his nose and the scar across his cheek. I am unable to meet his eyes. I fear if I look at him, he will see the truth of Pierre’s words. He will understand just how easily I kill. I square my shoulders. “Not until he was dead and his soul was laid open to me.” My voice is steady, but colored by the bleakness I feel. “There was no god guiding me in this,” I whisper. “Only instinct. He did not strike first. I did.”

Beast puts his hands on my shoulders. “You do not know that there are no gods guiding your hand in this. You only know that you did not see Mortain’s marque.”

I start to ask him what he means, but he talks over me. “We have had this discussion, you and I. I cannot fathom why the god of death would not grace you with killing to protect the innocent. Perhaps there is no innocence or guilt when death is concerned. But other gods, other saints, do sanc

tion killing to protect innocents. Saint Arduinna, Saint Camulos. And make no mistake. Not only is this war, but you and your sisters are innocent in this.”

I snort. “I was never innocent.”

Beast shakes me—?gently, but a shake nevertheless. “Don’t say that,” he growls. It is the closest I have ever seen him to being angry with me. “You are a survivor who has done precisely what she needs to in order to survive. You are not even close to what your brothers or father are, any more than Charlotte or Louise is.”

Even though I don’t think he is right, I allow myself to believe his words, just for a moment—?much as one might step briefly into a church to snatch a passing moment of grace. “This is a war, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Someone was sent to kill you. How could you tell he was an assassin?”

I explain the trap that he’d laid with the dead deer, his dress, his manner. “But mostly,” I say, “it was simply instinct.” The same inner voice that told me what to do with the dying guard. “Once he was dead, I saw that he was told to look for me. Given my description.”

Beast grips my shoulders tighter. “By who?”

I look up and meet his eyes. “I do not know. The hand that held out the bag of coins was wearing a leather glove. I could not tell if it was a man’s or woman’s or if it had a fresh scar across the back of it as Pierre’s would have. But,” I say slowly, “the glove was similar to the one I saw handing money to one of the mercenaries.”