Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)
I smile and cheerfully wave goodbye as my insides wilt. Beside me, Maraud shifts, but before he can speak, Rollo appears. It is time to begin. I sigh. “We will have to separate from the others once we are inside,” I tell Maraud. “And find our way back out later.”
“Won’t your smith friend miss you?”
“With luck he’ll be too drunk to notice.” And if not, well, hopefully we’ll be long gone by then.
* * *
The castle at Angoulême is far different than the chateau at Cognac. It is of an earlier time, a true fortress designed and erected for defense purposes. As such, its rooms and furnishings are more imposing, the ceilings higher, the walls thicker, the windows smaller. That is not to say it is not furnished with richness and grandeur, only that the effect is that of a harsh mistress rather than a comforting one.
It is also full of people. There are bodies everywhere—?lining the hallway, pressed three deep in every entryway and vestibule. “How are we to sneak away with so many watching?” Maraud mumbles in my ear.
“Hush! I’m thinking.” Although fighting off panic is more accurate. There is simply no place where there are not at least a half dozen pairs of eyes on us. With Count Angoulême absent, the entire town has gathered to watch the performance. “I don’t think we have any choice but to perform,” I finally whisper to Maraud. “There are too many people. Even so, no one will know we are not simply two more mummers.”
From behind the slits in his wolf mask, his eyes glint with skepticism.
“There is no one who would recognize us,” I insist as the music begins. Rollo claps and the line of mummers, with Maraud and me trapped among them, move toward the salon. I wipe my palms on my tunic at least twice. Performing in the grand salon will be no different than performing in Jarnac, I assure myself.
However, it is in the grand salon that the third leg of my plan crumbles so completely that the entire thing collapses. The enormous room is not the problem. Nor are the hundreds of people filling it. The problem sits on the dais, watching the performance with bored, lazy eyes.
“I thought you said Count Angoulême was away!” Maraud hisses, his wolf whiskers tickling my ear.
“I did! He was!” But for some inexplicable reason, he is here in the city a full two weeks earlier than expected.
“Even better,” Maraud’s voice drips with sarcasm. “That is Pierre d’Albret on his right.”
Of course it is. Why should my plan merely collapse when it could go up in flames instead?
D’Albret is thickly built with a face that would be handsome if not for the cruelty that lurks there. His eyes scan the room with barely concealed impatience, looking as if he would tear the wings off of everyone else’s happiness simply to relieve his own boredom.
I am so unsettled by the magnitude of this disaster that I draw my dagger from its hilt and hold it in the same hand as Maraud’s chain.
Then I secure the visor more firmly in place and shift the contours of my mind. I am not Genevieve from the convent, or one of Louise’s attendants, but Gen, a girl raised in the upper room of a tavern who has spent her entire life among people such as these performers. A girl for whom the highlight of the entire year is a chance to frolic and perform in such a way.
Three brightly colored fools tumble by, our cue to enter the circle. I take a deep breath and step out into the hall, brandishing my sword in one hand and Maraud’s chain in the other.
My body does not lose itself in the rhythm of the music. There is no feeling of moving in time with the gods or even my fellow mummers. There is simply need, raw and primitive, to stay hidden from those who seek me.
I do not look at the audience. I most especially do not look at Angoulême. I focus on Maraud. Our steps are as precise and well timed as one of the rare clocks that sits in the town square.
We have taken three turns around the room and have only one more left to go when we have our first misstep. One of the tumblers misses his footing as he executes his tumble, and his wrist connects with Maraud’s ankle just as my sword arcs down for a blow. Off balance, Maraud flings out his arms to keep from tripping. In doing so, he knocks my sword from my hand.
A few in the crowd gasp, as if it is part of the act. Without missing a beat, I give my dagger a twisting spin—?just like Maraud taught me—?flipping it from my left hand to my right, and step in close to hold it at his throat.
The audience oohs in appreciation. Maraud grabs his neck, writhes as if in agony, then slumps forward and grows still. The music stops, the audience claps and hoots, and coins rain down upon us. Angoulême’s presence is as heavy and suffocating as a shroud. Is it because he is watching me? I refuse to look and risk drawing his attention. Not when we are so close to being free.
When the applause has begun to die away, we finally begin to file out of the grand salon. “Hold,” a deep voice calls out.
It is not Angoulême, but Pierre d’Albret. He sprawls in his chair, staring at me. “You there, with the long hair and helmet.”
I point my finger at my chest.
“Yes, you.”
I take a step forward, but say nothing, afraid Angoulême will recognize my voice.
D’Albret lifts his goblet, eyes shrewd and thoughtful. “Where did you learn that trick with the knife?” He takes a sip of his wine, then looks at the wolf at my side. “I have only known one man to use that before.”
A deep note of alarm clangs inside me. Having have no choice but to speak, I pitch my voice slightly higher hoping to keep Angoulême from recognizing it. “I don’t know, my lord. I have traveled with mummer troupes since I was a child and picked up many tricks in that time.”
D’Albret’s gaze turns languidly to Maraud. “And what of your wolf?”
“What of him, my lord?”
He plants his elbows on the table, his lips growing slack as he leers at me. “Is he one of the tricks you picked up?”
All the men at his table, and a number of the lower ones, laugh at his jibe. Next to me, the muscles in Maraud’s neck grow taut in anger, but he keeps the rest of his body loose.
“La, my lord! He is much too heavy to pick up. I will leave him to haul his own sorry carcass around.”
The men laugh again, this time at Maraud’s expense. A page appears to refill d’Albret’s goblet just then. With a wave of his hand, he dismisses us. As I turn toward the door, I allow my gaze to flit to Count Angoulême. He is deep in conversation with the woman on his left. Even so, it is not until we are free of the grand salon and filing into the lower hall that I allow myself to breathe.
“Rutting saints, that was close!” I shoot Maraud an accusing glance. “You did not tell me your knife trick was so easily recognized.”
“No, but I did tell you that coming here was a bad idea. I just didn’t realize how bad.”
* * *
There are a few pockets of soldiers in the stable yard, but most seem to be heading toward the castle or the garrison. I motion for Maraud to follow, and we step from the shadows, walking purposefully, but not so fast as to draw attention to ourselves.
When at last we reach the shelter of the stables, there are no torches and only a few lanterns—?the muted light as welcome as a mother’s arms.
My relief is short-lived, however, when I see just how many men are loitering in here. More men—?travel-stained and loud—?swagger into our path. Without a word, Maraud turns on his heel and disappears down a row of stalls so that I am left facing them alone.
Coward, I think to myself. I stride forward, keeping my steps confident and frowning as if I am in deep thought.
The ploy works. The men spare me but a passing glance. I wait until they are at the main door before slipping into the second-to-the-last row of stalls. There are no soldiers or stable hands here. When I reach the sixth stall, I stop, press myself against its door, and give a soft, low whistle. Two black ears swivel in my direction. She remembers!
“Hello, Gallopine,” I croon softly.
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The horse swings her head around and swishes her tail as I let myself in. She whickers softly, nostrils fluttering as she takes in my scent.
I step forward and give her a firm rub along her back. When she does not object, I move my hand up to her forehead, and her ears flop out to the side. “I’ve missed you.” I let my words blow gently against her nostrils. She butts me gently with her head.
“I am sorry I have not been able to visit, but you and I are going on a trip now.” I give her a final pat, then go to the wall and lift her harness from the hook.
Wondering what is taking Maraud so long, I loop the harness over her head and fit the bit into her mouth. I do not want to waste time searching for him, but it is a large stable and he didn’t see which row I turned into. With a grunt, I lift the saddle off its stand and turn to place it on Gallopine’s back, nearly dropping it when I see Count Angoulême himself, standing in the doorway, two men at arms at his back.
Chapter 66
enevieve.” The count’s voice is deep with authority and laced with annoyance, his face unreadable in the faint light.