Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

The most reliable factor I have to go on is age. However, most of the regent’s ladies in waiting have small, shriveled souls, so it is hard guess how old they are. Especially since they do not take kindly to the queen’s attendants trying to infiltrate their ranks, or even chatting with them in a friendly manner. While I do not adopt a friendly manner often, when I do, it nearly always manages to charm. That these stick-faced women are impervious to it just adds to my conviction that the regent has stolen their hearts and holds them locked away in stone jars.

But today, one of the women has been sent by the regent to deliver a message to the steward, and I have decided to follow.

Martine is a compact woman with a thin face and deep brown eyes. While her hair is brown, it does have glints of red when the light hits it. She is somewhere between sixteen and nineteen, with an aloof manner and keeps herself somewhat apart from the others. While it could simply be her nature, it could also be the reticence of someone who does not feel she can let down her guard.

If she is going to the steward’s office, she will pass through this same hallway on her way back. My plan is to place a crow feather someplace where she will see it and observe how she reacts. If she is looking for one—?her reaction will tell me much. If she has no knowledge of the convent, she likely will not even notice it.

There is no way to guarantee she will see it but to leave it on the floor so that it is directly in her path. Provided no servant wanders by and removes it before then.

Fortunately, there is an alcove further down the hallway. If I press myself into it, suck in my stomach, and do not move, I will not be visible.

Luckily for me, Martine is an efficient woman and does not take long with her errand. The rapid clack of her footsteps alerts me to her return. Then an abrupt silence. Has she spotted the feather?

The silence is followed by a huff of irritation accompanied by more hurried steps leading back the way she came. Unable to help myself, I peer around the lip of the alcove in time to see her yank on a rope to summon a servant. I pull back into my alcove. Did she not see it after all?

Moments later a young maid hurries from the far end of the hall toward Martine. Her voice is slightly breathless, eager to please. “Yes, my lady?”

“Are you in charge of seeing to this part of the castle?”

“Not personally, my lady, but—”

“Find whoever is responsible.”

“But of course, my lady. Should I request they bring anything in particular to be of service?”

“Can you not see what is before your own face? Look!”

There is a long moment of silence. “Look at what, my lady?” the maid finally asks.

“That . . . filthy, dirty feather right here where the regent or the king himself could see it. The regent will not tolerate such slovenliness in her household, and I want to know who is responsible so that they may be held to account.”

Cursing Martine for being a shrew—?the regent’s household!—?I step out of the alcove and walk briskly toward them as if I have just come from the solar. I put my hands to my cheeks. “Oh, dear! There it is.”

Both women look at me as if the feather could only have come from my brain.

“This is yours?” Martine finally asks. Her brow is creased, making her eyes smaller and meaner.

“Not exactly.” I give an apologetic smile. “I found it outside and meant to give it to my youngest sister, who likes to collect them. It must have fallen from my pocket.” I bend over, scoop up the feather, and hold it out like a prize. “Thank you so much for finding it. I know it will delight her.” And with that, I hurry back down the hall.

Merde. That did not go at all how I had hoped.

Chapter 59

Genevieve

y the time we reach Jarnac late that afternoon, our group has grown. Much as rivulets run together turning into little streams, which in turn come together to form small rivers, so too have the villagers from Cognac, volunteers from nearby chateaux, and stray travelers joined with the mummers until we are a sea of performers. The people of Jarnac have eagerly awaited our arrival, and the guild hall in the center of town has been set aside for our use.

The hall is large, and I head for a secluded corner in the far back. No one has given me any additional notice, but it is wise not to push my luck. I select a quiet corner, pull my pack out from under my breastplate, drop it to the floor, and lie down next to it, my legs grateful for the rest. A moment later there is a whomp and a thud as Maraud does the same.

“Why are you tired?” I ask without looking at him. “You haven’t had to walk since before noon.” When Herbin’s wagon got stuck in a rut on the road, Maraud was one of the first to lend a hand. He was offered a ride in the cart by way of thanks.

“There was room for you if you had asked.” My eyes are closed, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

“I did not need to be carted in a wagon.”

“You have not been confined to a cell the size of a large tankard, with no exercise for nearly a year.”

“Your offer of help was very well timed.”

When he says nothing, I open my eyes. His gaze rests on me with a faint air of disappointment. Guilt pokes at my gut. I adjust the hood of my cloak to better cushion my head. “Even so, it worked out well. You could not have walked the entire way. Although,” I amend, “you have done far better than most would have.”

He grimaces good-humoredly. “Do not be too impressed. I am now ready for a nap.”

Within moments, he is breathing deeply, asleep already. I marvel at how easily he shrugs off both insults and embarrassment. In my experience, either one is enough for men to puff up like a peacock or draw into a wounded silence. But not Maraud. He is as resilient as a piece of gristle.

It would be so much easier if he would puff up or lash out in anger. He would not be so likable then. And I cannot afford to like him. No more than a farmwife can like the goose she is fattening up for her dinner.

I roll over on my side, trying to get comfortable. Even though I have just walked miles, my limbs still twitch with the need to move, to run, to exercise my newfound freedom.

To forget the pain of Margot’s death, the comfort of Maraud’s touch, and the vague sense of emptiness that lingers even though I have discovered my destiny. I give a grunt of frustration and sit up. Maraud is still asleep, but there are scores of people—?colorful, warm, easy people—?with which to distract myself.

Thus resolved, I go in search of the men who are passing around the wine jug.

* * *

An hour later, Maraud finds me sitting with a group of mummers near the front of the hall. “Ah! Here is the wolf now!” Herbin, the wagon driver, pours a cup of wine, hands it to Maraud, and lifts his own in salute. “Thanks for you help today. You know your way around an axle.”

Maraud shrugs at compliment but takes the offered refreshment. “Drink up,” Jacquette urges. “It was a long day and will be an even longer night.”

As Maraud folds himself down onto the floor among us, Jacquette leans forward, a speculative gleam in her eye. “So, do you work at the same tavern Lucinda does?”

Maraud slips into the lie I have told as easily as a fish into water. “No, but I visit often.”

This elicits a r

ound of laughter and a refill of his glass. One would never guess he was from one of the noblest families in Brittany. His years with the mercenaries have rubbed away some of his polish.

A man from Jarnac appears bearing hot, fat sausages on sticks. He hands one to Maraud and Jacques. “Eat up. We begin shortly.”

When he tries to hand one to me, I nod my head toward Maraud. “Give it to him. I had two already.” It is a lie, but the wine has filled my stomach. And besides, Maraud has much catching up to do as far as meals go.

As he eats, I introduce him to my new friends. “This is Denic, a weaver of wool here in Jarnac. And this is Jarnac’s village priest, Father Innocent. Although,” I say in a loud whisper, “with his wandering eyes and sneaky fingers, he is anything but.”

Father Innocent blushes, looking abashed as the others laugh. I smile to soften the barb in my words. I do not begrudge him his pleasures, simply the sneaking of them. “And this is Marie, whose husband’s fine wine we are drinking. Herbin and Rogier you already know from this morning.”

Maraud nods at each of them, lifting his cup in acknowledgment. In order to maintain the pretense I told the others—?that Maraud and I are “friends” from a tavern in Norvaigne, I lean against Maraud’s arm. “Denic will be dressed as the king tonight, and Father Innocent will be performing as the Green Maid.”

Maraud lifts his cup to Father Innocent. “A lovelier Green Maid I cannot imagine.”

As the men laugh at his joke, I wonder briefly if my act of being nobly born is ever discovered, can I plead it was naught but a Twelfth Night frolic gone on too long? It is the one time of year when the world turns upside down and peasants may dress as kings and kings play beggars and fools.

And here I sit, a peasant pretending to be a noble pretending to be a peasant. It is absurd enough that my laughter joins with that of the others.