Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)
When I reply, my face is utterly blank. “What?” I ask. “What will not happen again?”
There is a brief flash of disbelief on his face—?incredulity that for a second time I am denying something we both know to be true. His jaw tightens, and he turns his face to the road.
Remorse crashes through me like a wave, but I harden my heart against it. His feelings, my feelings, are not what are important. The convent, the younger girls, the older nuns—?they are what is important. That is why we are riding side by side. He is a weapon in my arsenal, a bargaining piece. Nothing more.
* * *
Shortly after noon, thunder rumbles through the air. I look up into the thick gray clouds overhead, but they do not have the appearance of storm clouds. And there is no rain.
It is Maraud who understands what is happening first. “Riders,” he shouts. “Get off the road.”
There is a moment of inaction as everyone tries to make sense of what he is saying, then we all begin scrambling to make way for the company of mounted knights barreling in our direction.
They are visible now, a standard bearer riding in front, the blue and gold banner he carries streaming behind him. At least fourscore mounted knights follow.
“They’re not slowing down,” Herbin says uneasily as he tries to steer the oxen to the side of the road.
“They won’t.” Maraud grabs the head of the closest ox to shove him along. “They have the right of way and these knights in particular will take their due and more.”
The two women next to me both carry sleeping children. While I rack my brain to remember which house bears the blue and gold standard, I reach out and steady their elbows so they can cross the deep ruts and reach the safety of the side of the road.
Two of the children eager to see the horses slip from their mothers’ sides and edge back toward the road. I let go of the women, grab the children by the hands, and haul them back to safety. The riders are coming fast now, recklessly fast. The road is full of deep ruts that could easily trip one of their mounts and cause it to break a leg.
But they do not slow or check their speed. The churning hooves turn up small clods of dried mud, sounding like a smattering of hail along with the thunder of their stride.
Just as they are nearly upon us, one of the straggling children clambers over the berm back into the road. Perhaps he thinks it is a game. Or he wants to see the knights more clearly. Perhaps he thinks he is quicker than the oncoming horses or that he is small enough to dart between their legs. Who knows what thoughts children have in such moments? But now he is on the road with fourscore mounted knights bearing down on him and none of them—?not one—?is breaking stride or slowing in the slightest. The sight of them strikes all reason from the child’s head, and he freezes with terror. And still they do not slow. They will simply run him down.
“Stay here!” I thrust the children next to me farther from the road. Before I can run out to snag the boy, Maraud launches himself from the ox cart like an arrow from a bow. His long arms reach out and snatch up the child, curling his body around the boy as the momentum from his leap carries them both to the far side of the road. There is a loud thud and then the riders are upon us.
Unable to do anything but watch the streaming knights and flailing hooves, I grab the children’s hands again and hold them tight. My heart beats so hard I fear it will break one of my ribs. Is it Maraud’s and the child’s heartbeats I feel? Or simply my own? The thunder of the passing horses reverberates so heavily from the earth through my legs to my chest that it is impossible to tell.
I glare in impotent fury at the riders. Their visors are down, their spurs lowered, their horses covered in sweat. The knights’ armor is dark, their faces hard and cruel-lipped. That these men can ride down others with no consequence to themselves causes my stomach to twist into a seething knot.
When at last they have passed, there is a muffled sob as one of the women dashes across the road to Maraud and the child.
With the sound of hooves still ringing in our ears, a small voice calls out. “Get off! You’re squishing me!”
A near hysterical laugh escapes me, and I squeeze the two boys’ hands before letting them go check on their friend. I am halfway across the road before I realize I have even moved. The child wriggles out from under Maraud, bouncing up like a spring rabbit and running to his mother, complaining that the wolf threw him down on the dirt.
Jacquette grabs him tightly to her bosom, then clouts his head and tells him to be grateful because that big wolf just saved his scrawny life.
When I reach Maraud, he is still lying on the ground, staring up at the sky. His face is deathly pale. No, no, no. I will not go through this again.
I drop to my knees as my frantic fingers begin gently probing his body for signs of injury. “Are you all right? Can you speak?”
He turns to look at me, the expression on his face both distant and disturbing. “You care,” he says, almost offhandedly.
“What hurts?”
He answers with a hollow voice. “It is just a bruised rib.”
I nearly reach out and clout his head in relief, like Jacquette. “Then why do you look like Death?”
He blinks, turning to stare back up at the clouds. “Because those knights are of the house d’Albret, and riding at their helm was Pierre d’Albret. Every one of those men knows exactly who I am.”
Chapter 63
he city of Angoulême comes into sight just as dusk is beginning to fall. As we approach the gates, Maraud puts a hand on my arm, drawing me back to the edge of our group.
I glance at his hand, and he quickly removes it. “So now that we are here, I need to know what our plan is. We are entering not only your enemy’s territory but, with d’Albret’s arrival, mine as well.”
I want to ask why they are enemies, but instead say, “Will d’Albret and his men spend the night in the city?”
He glances up at the darkening sky. “Most likely. It is a convenient stop on the way to his holding in Périgord.” He is silent a long moment. “Why are we spending the night in Angoulême? I thought you were escaping. It makes no sense to run to one of the count’s strongholds.”
“Is there another way to reach the route north?”
His eyes scan the poplar tree
s that line the road like upright soldiers. “Where north?”
“Poitiers. And we will need horses to get there.” Poitiers is only a stop on the way to Plessis-lès-Tours, but I do not want to share our destination with him. He has traveled these roads far more than I have, and I do not wish to give him so much information that he thinks he can begin plotting against me.
He tilts his head, thinking. “There are not any horse markets in Angoulême this time of year.”
“We do not need to buy them. They are already mine.”
His eyes narrow as he begins to sense where this is leading. “Where are these horses of yours stabled?”
It is hard not to squirm under that gaze. Obtaining horses has always been one of my greatest challenges. “At the count’s stables in Angoulême.”
Maraud stops walking and gapes at me. “Are you mad? Surely that is too dang—”
“Is it any less dangerous than stealing a horse? When the punishment for such is death?” It is hard to explain why I do not want to return to the convent—?or face those who used to run the convent—?empty-handed. To have lost Margot, to have achieved nothing in five years, and to have abandoned the few tools they gave me feels like too great a defeat.
“But the count—”
“Is not in residence. I told you, he is spending Christmas with the Duke of Orléans and will not be home until after Epiphany. No one at his castle in Angoulême knows me.”
“So how do you plan to collect these horses of yours?”
“It is simple. In exchange for their entertainment, the mummers are given hospitality in the castle’s lower halls or stables. Tonight we’ll make our way with the other mummers to the castle, settle ourselves into the stable, and wait. The best time for us to leave the city will be during the performance. All eyes will be on that. If anyone does see us, we can claim to be latecomers or part of a surprise ending act.”