Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)
Her brows arch faintly at this. “Yes, but who are they?”
I consider—?briefly—?lying, but it is too easily disproved. There is no choice but to tell her the truth. “They are my sisters.”
Her casual curiosity sharpens into keen interest. “Why are they not with their father?”
I tighten my fingers on the reins and stare at the space between my horse’s ears. “He took a mortal injury and is not able to provide for their care.” My voice is cool and distant, signaling it is not a subject I wish to discuss.
It does not work with her. “What of his sons?”
I glance at her. “My eldest brother is the king of Navarre, which keeps him quite busy.”
“But what of Sire d’Albret’s other sons? Why are they not providing for their sisters?”
It has not taken her long to piece together my family’s name. It was inevitable that she would learn at some point, but I do not like it all the same.
“They have,” I patiently explain. “By placing them in my care. Besides, what better way to provide for them than have them fostered by the queen of France? I believe you yourself have set this example, have you not? You have taken scores of girls under your tutelage and protection.”
The words are the nicest I have uttered about the regent. They feel false and unfamiliar on my tongue. Her nostrils flare with pride. “I have always believed in providing a solid foundation for girls and women to follow.” She sniffs, eloquently conveying her doubt that the queen is up to the task. “I will be sure to advise the queen in this matter. Molding young minds is not to be taken lightly.”
I do not know if it is my pounding head or her own consummate political skill, but whatever I say, whatever direction I try to steer her in, only captures her interest further. “Your generosity knows no bounds, Madame.”
When she lifts her reins and returns to the head of the column, I am left with the uneasy sensation that in revealing my sisters, I have just handed her a weapon.
Chapter 44
Genevieve
s there an upcoming tourney you are training for? Why are you pushing so hard this morning?” Maraud’s back is pressed against the wall, the tip of my baselard at his throat.
“That is twice now I have had you cornered.” I try to keep the lilt of victory from my voice, but I do not succeed.
He shoves my sword aside with his forearm. “You will not always be so fortunate as to do your fighting in a rabbit warren,” he mutters. “We have practiced all the close-quarter maneuvers scores of times. We are too limited here.”
“And what do you suggest?” I ask, knowing full well what will come next.
“I suggest we begin using one of the rooms where they first held me prisoner, rather than this hole.”
“You weren’t always down here?”
“No. I was in a cell above for the first months of my stay. Given daily food and water as well.” He smiles ruefully.
I lift my sword again, making sure he sees the point aimed at his heart. “And what did you do to earn being flung down in this pit?”
“You are as tiresome as a yapping dog with that question.”
“Answer it.”
His gaze meets mine, as open and earnest as a babe’s. “I do not know. One day they wrapped a gag around my mouth, bound my hands, and shoved me down here.”
I cannot help but think of the letter I discovered in Angoulême’s study. “You are not bound or gagged now.”
“No.” His smile is one of grim triumph and puts me in mind of a wolf.
Why would his circumstances change so? “When was this?”
“That is hard to say. Accounting for time is difficult down here, but it was before Michaelmas.”
“Not so very long, then.”
He raises a dark brow at me. “I would beg to differ.”
“Touché.”
He brings his sword up to tap my blade. “Which brings us back to the point at hand. We need a larger practice area.”
I snort. “What will we do in a larger cell?”
“You will back me into a corner even faster.”
Unable to help myself, I laugh. “It would be most convenient if I were to trust you to return to the oubliette like a dutiful sheep to its pen once we had finished our practicing, but I am not a fool, Jackanapes. Especially since your story has more holes than a beggar’s cloak.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, your concern for the duchess is most unmercenary-like. The captain of her armies knows your name. You have not been killed nor ransomed. And you are such an ardent follower of Saint Camulos that you believe he would send someone to help you. If you have such a heightened sense of your own importance, why shouldn’t I?” I do not tell him of the letter. I am not ready to reveal what I have learned.
He comes at me fast, pressing hard in a flurry of blows that take all of my concentration to block. “Mayhap the confidence you speak of comes from knowing that whatever life throws my way, I can wrest some sort of victory from it.”
He is so concentrated on pressing his attack that he creates a small opening for me to duck and spin to the side, allowing me to get out from under his guard. “That may very well be true,” I say, “but I also know that when one strikes too close to the truth, people react defensively. Your own fury gives away your secrets.”
“Your keen sense of observation only enforces my conviction that you are not who you say you are. But to answer your incessant question, I am the fourth son of an impoverished minor Breton lord who sold my services as a mercenary.”
I want to crow with satisfaction. I knew it! “Why would you fight as a mercenary and not under your family’s coat of arms?”
A sour smile twists his lips. “Clearly you have never met my family.”
For some reason my mind goes back to our conversations in the dark, conversations I have forbidden him to speak of, and think of the heart wounds he spoke so knowledgably about. “So it was not your mercenary company, but your family that refused to pay ransom?”
He shifts to his right and tries to find an opening on my left, but I block it. “If there were any ransom demands sent, that would be the most likely reason it was not paid.” He picks his words carefully.
“Why did they not simply kill you once the ransom price was refused?”
He hesitates, and in that hesitation, I can feel all the lies he is considering. “I do not know why I was chosen for such hospitality.”
That is a lie. It has the shape and feel of truth, but smells off in some way. “Why are you really here?”
“I already told you.” His eyes meet mine, challenging me to remember.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did. Before. In the dark. On your third visit here.”
“This is my third visit,” I tell him through clenched teeth.
“Ah, perhaps I am mistaken.” He smiles smugly, and I want to smack it off his face.
Instead, I begin a new attack, backing him against the wall. “Since you dreamed that you already told me, you should have no trouble repeating your answer now.”