Chapter 39
Maraud
By the time they drew near Paris, four weeks of rain had finally cooled Maraud’s temper. That and being out of the mud. He’d decided he was no longer mad about the poisoning incidents. Indignant, yes. Mad, no. Especially as the first time was in self-defense, when he’d tried to overpower her, and the second time had been a farce all along. And the third, well, it had been her misdirected effort to save him from himself.
Most of the other things that had angered him were about wounded pride. That she’d got the jump on him—twice. That she’d saved his life—twice. The last time in particular didn’t sit well. He’d told her to leave, but she’d ignored him and come back, giving him the precious minutes he needed for the others to arrive.
He had needed her help.
All of these occasions had one thing in common: Maraud not seeing her as an equal. He’d told himself that he knew better—knew what was best.
And he’d been wrong.
His hand clenched around the glass vial as he realized how rutting stupid he was. Why would she trust him? A prisoner, who tried to overpower her. A man whose family had betrayed the duchess. And then he’d gone and tried to make her fit into his plan—essentially telling her that his needs were more important than hers. Saints, he was an idiot. Three times an idiot.
Would she still be at court? Or would she have concluded her business and be long gone?
Had she managed to save the innocents she’d been so worried about? He hoped so.
Up ahead, Jaspar whistled, and reined in his horse. Maraud shoved the vial into the leather pouch at his waist, then pulled alongside him to survey the city ahead—Saint-Denis.
Even from their vantage point he could hear the music of celebration and the cheers of the solid mass of people filling the streets. A small cluster of figures stood on the steps of the basilica. Maraud could make out the king and queen, but only because of the crowns on their heads. Everyone else was so far away as to be indistinguishable from one another. Even Cassel’s bulk was disguised by the distance. But he was here. Maraud felt it in his bones.
“The watch captain said the royal party will ride to Paris first thing in the morning,” Jaspar reported. “A processional to introduce the new queen to her people. She’ll be accompanied by the entire court. If Cassel is with her, you’ll have a chance to see him then.”
Maraud sighed and eyed the crowd of revelers still gamboling through the narrow streets. “Do you think there is any lodging to be had for the night?”
Andry snorted. “Probably not. We’ll be lucky to find a stable to sleep in.”
“Better’n mud,” Tassin muttered.
Chapter 40
The hardest part was getting across the damned bridge. There were more people clogging the streets of Paris than there were fish in the sea. Boats filled the river, all clustering near the island like piglets sucking on teats. They perched on top of the rooftops of the houses that lined both sides of the bridge that led to Notre Dame, leaning out of the windows and gathering in the doorways, spilling out onto the bridge and blocking the way. The nobler families that lived in the elegant storied houses were all likely waiting at the cathedral, although a few seemed to be having parties and were perched on windowsills to watch. Even the servants seemed to have abandoned their duties and puddled around the houses like voluminous skirts.
“There’s no way a royal procession can get through this crowd,” Jaspar muttered.
“Maybe they’ll part like the Red Sea when they get here,” Maraud said. It was one big field of people, none of them with the sense God gave a sheep. They just stood there, milling and gawking. How they expected the royal party to get through was anyone’s guess. He tried to use his elbows to force a path, but the crowd was implacable, and they were stuck in it as it slowly oozed toward Notre Dame. Maraud felt swallowed by the whole of it, almost like being swallowed by the mummer’s dance.
Only this time with more stinking and shoving.
They finally popped through the final throng of bystanders on the bridge, only to find the streets of the island itself just as crowded.
“Just keep moving toward the spire,” Andry said.
When they drew nearer the cathedral, Maraud used his elbows again to work to the edges, then broke free at last. The others followed in his wake, stumbling out behind him.
The square was bursting with so much color and life that it momentarily dazzled his eyes. Vibrant tapestries, boughs of greenery, and cartloads of flowers—even in winter!—filled every available space not taken up by the stone cathedral. Maraud had seen the cathedral only once before, and it seemed even more impressive now with its tall spires reaching toward the heavens for what seemed like miles.
“We going to stand here like rocks in a stream?” Tassin barely spared the cathedral a glance.
“Never realized how much I hated crowds,” Jaspar muttered.
“I prefer the mud,” Andry said. “It smelled better.”
People lined both sides of the street, sitting in the gutters and hanging from windows and ledges. A wooden platform had been built near the cathedral—a stage of sorts, with a tall mechanical contrivance nearby. “We can sit at the base of that tower and see the entire square.” Even better, the legs would offer some cover if Maraud needed to hide his face.
Nearly two hours later, a roar started up on the bridge. Maraud hopped up and climbed a few feet on the wooden tower. The banners on the bridge were unfurling, and voices cheered. His heart beat faster. The carefully banked ember that lurked deep in his belly flared to life, and his jaw tightened with anticipation.
“They’re coming,” he called down to the others.
Valine shielded her eyes and looked up at him. “Aren’t you worried Cassel will spot you?”
“He’s too arrogant to pay attention to the crowd. And if he does, I have this.” He thumped the wooden beam he was clinging to.
Valine nudged his boot with her elbow and pointed to his right. “He might not bother with the crowd, but will he stop to watch the play?”
Maraud looked to the right of the platform, where costumed players scrambled in a flurry of last-minute preparations. He half expected to see Rollo or Jacquette grinning at him, but these men were town fathers and guild members rather than mummers. “We won’t be onstage.”
The crowd around the cathedral erupted in a deafening cheer. The procession had arrived. Serving as the queen’s honor guard, officers of the city and members of parliament rode their mounts as if they were royalty and not she, but the crowd’s noise was so loud he couldn’t even hear their horses’ hooves on the cobbles. Across the square, an older woman collapsed dramatically into the arms of her friends.
Maraud cocked an eyebrow at Valine and leaned in close so she could hear. “You going to faint when you see her?”
She shoved her elbow into his ribs so hard that he grunted. By the time he was upright again, the queen’s litter had rounded the corner. Maraud studied her escort, searching out the big ones with a military bearing.
Maraud saw General Cassel the moment he emerged in the square, as if his need for justice was so great that it could sniff the man out like a hound.
Jaspar nudged his shoulder. Maraud nodded without taking his eyes from the general. He hadn’t changed. Still
the same ugly, arrogant bastard. Still surveying the world around him as if he were a wolf trying to decide which sheep to eat next. No, not a wolf. They killed only out of need. Cassel was more like one of the big hunting cats that chose quarry just to maim and torture for their own amusement.
The memory of the general’s face, his arm as it swung toward Ives flashed brightly. Found you, you great big hairy bastard. I’m coming for you.
The tower he was leaning against began to rumble—so close and deep that he felt it in his gut—as great gears and chains began to move within it. He leapt back, head tilted upward. A man dressed as Peace began descending from the sky—as if from heaven itself. On the stage below waited a man dressed as War. The crowd watched in awed silence. Once low enough that he could leap from the contrivance onto the stage, Peace seized War by the throat and drove a sword through his heart, killing him on the spot.
The crowd roared its approval, and the queen smiled prettily. Maraud was the only one not smiling. He was too busy planning the moment when he could do the same to Cassel.
As the actors playing France and Brittany embraced, trumpets blared and the crowd in the square erupted into renewed cheers. Even the queen—his queen—clapped her hands in delight.
When the cheering finally subsided, she waved once more, then the procession moved across the square to the palace. The crowd surged forward, nearly cutting her off from her own attendants, who followed along behind her. Close to twenty ladies in waiting rode behind the queen’s litter, their brightly colored gowns brilliant in the sun. A shaft of sunlight sparkled off a woman’s silver necklace, nearly blinding him. As he blinked the dark spots from his vision, she turned to stare at the tower that had so miraculously lowered Peace. Her eyes were wide with wonder. Golden brown eyes that made his breath catch in his throat.
Lucinda. She was still at court.
Maraud waited until she, reluctantly it seemed to him, hurried to catch up to the others, then fell into step beside Valine, and allowed the dispersing crowd to separate them from the others. Not so much that they’d never find each other, but enough that they couldn’t hear every word he said to Valine. “I need you to do something for me.”