Authors: Robin Lafevers
Chapter Thirteen
Duval’s revelation about Runnion plagues me for the rest of the afternoon. If Runnion was truly innocent, why did the convent send me to kill him? Had they not known of his work for the duchess? Or do they know something Duval does not?
And if Runnion was working for the duchess, why had he borne the marque? why had Mortain not removed that stain from the man’s soul?
I fear the answer lies in my actions. By striking him down, did I rob him of his chance to earn forgiveness?
I shove that disturbing thought from my mind. Mortain is all-knowing. Surely He would have seen the man’s intention and spared him if He thought Runnion worthy.
I am still wrestling with the Runnion matter when Duval steers us across a thick stone bridge. The town is small and crowded, but Duval seems to know where he is going and leads us through the cobbled streets until we reach an inn.
we dismount, and the ostler arrives to take our horses. Duval gives him instructions for their care, then offers me his arm. As I take it, I wonder what folly decreed that women cannot walk unassisted. Inside, the innkeeper rushes forward to greet us, and Duval tells him of our needs for the night. The innkeeper directs someone to take our things to our rooms, then leads us to the inn’s main hall, where dinner is being served.
The hall is a large room, larger even than the refectory back at the convent. In spite of the room’s size, a low ceiling and dark timber beams make it feel small and close. A fire burns in the hearth, and the place smells of smoke, new wine, and roasting meat.
we choose a corner table, as far away from the other diners as we can get. I hurry forward so I can take the seat that affords me the clearest view of the door. Duval’s lips quirk in amusement.
A serving maid sets a flagon of wine and two cups on the table, then withdraws. I do not even let him quench his thirst before I launch my questions at him. “If Runnion was working for the duchess, what was he doing at the tavern?” I know the convent cannot make such a mistake. There is some other element in play here, and I am determined to ferret it out.
Duval lifts his goblet and takes a long drink before answering. “He was bringing me word on whether england would commit troops to aid our fight against the French.”
I feel as if Annith has just landed a kick to my gut. I want to accuse him of lying again, but his eyes are steady, and there are none of the signs of deception that I have been taught to look for. Besides, his answer makes sense. The duchess had been betrothed to england’s crown prince before he disappeared from the tower. “If that is the case, then I cannot believe the abbess knew that he was helping you.”
Duval shrugs. “I would like to believe she had no knowledge of his true purpose. The alternative is most disturbing.”
“Your suspicions are ill founded,” I snap. I take my goblet and drain half of it, as if the wine can wash the foul taste of his mistrust from my mouth.
As I set the goblet down, Duval leans across the table. “Now, I have shown good faith and answered your questions, and I would have you answer one of mine. I want to know more of these marques and how they work.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot share such things with you.”
He leans back and his eyes grow as cold and stark as the winter sky. “That is unfortunate, demoiselle. For until I learn more of how the convent makes its decisions, I will have to regard it — and you — with suspicion.”
I give him a false, brittle smile. “It seems we are both bound by duty.”
The serving maid arrives at that moment, breaking our impasse. She sets down loaves of fresh crusty bread, a roast capon, two bowls of stew, braised turnips and onions, and a wedge of cheese. Famished by the day’s long ride, we dig into our supper.
Once the worst of my hunger pangs have been appeased, I risk another question. “And what of Martel? Do you claim he worked for you too?”
“Could it be you are asking me for more information, demoiselle? when you have refused to give me so much as a morsel in return?”
It sounds unfair when he puts it like that. I soften my voice so he will think I regret this, but of course, I do not. “I will share what I know with you, but I cannot reveal the secrets of our order.”
He looks away, a small muscle in his jaw tightening. He is silent for a long moment, then turns back to me. “Very well. I will tell you of Martel, but only in the interest of showing you why you must stay your hand until you have gathered all the facts.
“Martel did not work for us, no. But I believe he could have been persuaded to tell me who at court was working for the French regent.”
I take a sip of wine to cover my distress. “Feeling a twinge of conscience yet?” Duval asks.
“No,” I lie.
A shadow looms near the door and pulls my attention from Duval. The largest man I have ever seen steps into the room. Half a head taller than Duval, he is travel stained and road weary and looks like an ogre who has strayed out of a hearth tale. His face bears the roughened texture of pox scars; his nose — broken at least twice — is a lumpen knob. His hair is shaved close to his head, and his eyes are creased in a permanent squint.
The man’s iron gaze sweeps across the room and lands on Duval. His eyes narrow, and he strides in our direction. every muscle in my body tenses, and my hand creeps to the dagger at my waist. Duval catches the movement. His eyes widen in surprise, then he glances over his shoulder.
He is up on his feet in an instant, heading toward the stranger at full tilt. They crash into each other with the force of two tree trunks colliding. It takes a moment for me to realize their blows are those of joyful greeting and not attempts to pummel each other into the ground. I let out a slow breath and remove my hand from my knife.
As they finish pounding each other, I notice a small cluster of stable boys and apprentices hovering in the doorway, pointing at the stranger. Duval nods his head in their direction, and the giant man rolls his eyes good-naturedly before turning and greeting them. They smile and talk excitedly among themselves until the innkeeper shoos them back to their duties.
Duval then drags the stranger to our table. The man does not improve upon closer inspection. His light blue eyes are startling in his scarred face and put me in mind of a wolf. In truth, he may be the ugliest man I have ever seen.
“Ismae,” Duval says. “This is Sir Benebic of waroch, otherwise known as the Beast. Beast, this is Demoiselle Rienne.”
My eyes widen in surprise, for even we at the convent have heard the tales of the Beast of waroch, of his ferocity and valor in battle, his extreme disregard for his own life that causes some to think he is mad. “Greetings, my lord.”
The Beast of waroch reaches for my hand and lifts it in a gentle grip, then makes a courtly bow. His pretty manners surprise me, as they do not match his face. when he speaks, his voice is low and rumbles like far-off thunder. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
“I am not noble born,” I murmur, embarrassed.
"Every maid Beast meets is a lady as far as he is concerned,” Duval explains.
Beast straightens and lets go of my hand. “Only those who do not run away from me in terror,” he says with a grin. He intends it to be rakish, but it looks more like he is baring his teeth before an attack. I like that he does not apologize for his looks, that he throws them down like a gauntlet. It is an approach I admire, and I immediately warm to him.
Of course, the number of French he killed in the last war does not hurt his cause any either. During the Mad war, it was his bravery that inflamed the imaginations and hearts of the peasantry and moved them to take up whatever arms they could find — pitchforks, poleaxes, shovels, scythes — and drive the French out of our country. If it were not for Beast’s inspiration and the peasants’ aid, the French might be here still.
“Sit, sit.” Duval shoves Beast onto the bench and takes a seat beside him. “I did not expect you back so soon. Nor to find you here.”
The men’s eyes meet and an unspoken message passes between them. "We made good time,” Beast says, then signals the innkeeper for another cup. The innkeeper is only too glad to oblige this legend come to life in his inn.
"We? De Lornay is with you?” Duval asks.
“Aye. He lost the coin toss and is seeing to the horses.”
"Would this be de Lornay?” I ask, staring at the man who has just entered the room. He is tall also, although he is closer to Duval’s height than to Beast’s towering stature, and he too is clad in road-stained riding leathers, but that is where any similarity ends. He is perhaps the most beautiful man ever — fair of feature and graceful, he looks like an archangel who has fallen from heaven. By the time he reaches our table, he has a small army of serving wenches following in his wake, eager to do his bidding. Disgusted, I avert my gaze and take a swallow of wine.
Duval rises to greet him, and I feel Beast watching my face. “You do not care for de Lornay’s beauty, demoiselle?” Beast asks.
I wrinkle my nose. “I am not impressed with pretty men in general, my lord.”
He grins maniacally and raises his cup to mine. “I knew we would get along,” he says, then drains his cup. warmed by his words, I do the same.
when Duval presents me to de Lornay, the other man makes no attempt to kiss my hand, nor does he call me lady. In fact, he all but ignores me. Beast leans in close again. “Pay no heed to this knight of Amourna’s manners.”
I glance sharply at de Lornay to see how he takes this slight, for to call a true knight naught but a lover of women seems a grave insult. But de Lornay merely shoots Beast an annoyed look and takes a seat. The innkeeper arrives and sets another jug of wine and more cups on the table, then shoos the cow-eyed serving maids away and leaves us to our dinner.
De Lornay reaches for the jug. “Did Runnion find you?”
Duval tosses a disgusted glance my way. “No. He met with an unfortunate accident before we could speak.”
De Lornay pauses in the middle of filling his cup. “Truly?”
Duval nods, and I stare at my dinner, doing my best to look incapable of causing an unfortunate accident. I remind myself that I have done nothing wrong, only allowed Mortain to guide my hand.
"What happened to him?” de Lornay asks.
Duval waves the question aside. “I am more interested in why you are here. I thought you had business in Brest once you returned.”
De Lornay and Beast exchange glances. “The baron was not there. He is on his way to Guérande for the convening of the estates,” Beast explains. “As are we.”
"What?” Duval says. It is the first time I have seen him nonplussed.
Beast frowned. “You did not want us to attend? we thought you would need our support.”
“I am not aware that a meeting of the estate has been called! The duchess hadn’t planned on calling all the barons together until she had a firm solution to this crisis to put before them. Are you certain?”
“Yes. The message arrived in Brest just as our boat landed. It bore the Privy Council seal.”
Duval takes a huge gulp of wine, as if fortifying himself. "Which means someone on the council has ignored the duchess’s wishes and called the meeting himself.” The table grows silent at this dire implication.
“Could she not have changed her mind?” I cannot help but ask.
Duval glances at me as if he had forgotten I was there. “No,” he says gently.
De Lornay turns to study me. “You picked a fine time to launch a romance,” he tells Duval.
“Demoiselle Rienne is my cousin, not a romantic liaison,” he says. “As such, I expect you to extend her every courtesy.” There is no mistaking the warning in his voice and I cannot help feeling a small glow of gratitude.
De Lornay’s striking dark eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “Cousin?”
“Cousin,” Duval growls. “I am launching her at court.”
De Lornay whistles. “To what purpose? Other than to cause gossip and speculation among the entire court?”
Duval grins, a quick flash of white teeth. “Is that not enough of a reason? However,” Duval continues, “your news changes everything. we should retire so we can get on the road at first light.” He stands and looks down at me.
It takes me a moment to realize that supper is over and I am being dismissed. He holds out his arm, in case I have not caught his meaning.
I narrow my eyes at him. Does he truly think I do not know his plan? That I will sit quietly in my room while he talks of kingdoms and traitors with these friends of his? Well and so, if he is that stupid, let him think I will do exactly as he wishes.
I smile sweetly at him. “Of course, milord.” I rise to my feet and bid the others good night. As Duval escorts me from the room, I school my features into a mild, placid expression. At my door, he bids me a polite good night and leaves. I close the door and lean against it, listening. when I am certain he is gone, I open the door and peer out into the hallway. It is empty.
Quiet as a shadow, I slip out of my room and hurry to find the servants’ stairway.
Chapter Fourteen
I descend the narrow stairway and pass through a small, cramped antechamber, then come to a thick door. The kitchens, no doubt. It is late, and if the saint is with me, most of the workers will be done for the night. I push the door open, a ready excuse at the tip of my tongue. But there are only two boys inside, over in the scullery corner scrubbing pots nearly as tall as they are.
I wink at them, then hold my finger to my lips and offer them two copper coins. Their eyes brighten at this unexpected largesse. They snatch the coins from me with red, raw fingers and nod their acceptance of our bargain. Their loyalty thus purchased, I make my way to the door that will lead me to Duval’s secrets.
It opens onto another short hallway between the kitchens and the dining hall. Perfect. I slip into the hallway, hide myself among the shadows, and inch along the wall toward the dining room.
Duval is just returning to his seat. Beast looks up and grimaces. “Catch that wench’s eye and order more wine, will you? She is too awed by my pretty face to heed my call, and Lord Dandy here will not do it.”
“Most likely because she’ll try to follow him back to his bedchamber,” Duval mutters.
Ignoring Duval’s jab, de Lornay leans across the table. “Are you really going to flaunt this girl before the entire court? Your bloodlines are far too well known for such a deception.”
Duval snorts. “I am hoping they will hear
cousin
and think
mistress.
”
“They would if it were anyone but you,” de Lornay scoffs. “You may as well be a monk with as few women as you take to your bed.”
Beast tilts his head to the side. "What is truly going on? Politics is your mistress, not some rustic from the country, no matter how charming she may be.”
I blush in the darkness, glad there is no one to see.
“And therein lies the rub,” Duval says. “No one will believe us, as I tried hard to explain to the abbess of St. Mortain.”
My limbs go rigid with shock as he exposes my true identity to the others. He must hold them in even greater regard than I thought. Or my safety in less.
Beast gapes at him. “That girl is from the convent of St. Mortain?”
Duval grimaces into his goblet. “One of Death’s handmaidens, my friend.”
Beast whistles. “Has she been set on you?”
“She says no, as does her abbess. But the girl is about as trusting as the French regent, so I have my doubts.”
Mayhap he is not as foolish as I think.
Duval refills his goblet and recounts the story of how he was ensnared in the reverend mother’s trap. when he is done, Beast throws back his great, ugly head and laughs, frightening the serving maid even more.
Duval stares morosely into the dregs of his cup. “It is not funny.”
“Oh, but it is,” de Lornay says. “The master of more plots than a whore has lovers has been neatly caught in someone else’s.”
Duval waits patiently for his friends’ mirth to pass. In truth, he is handling it much better than I would. I would have clouted them both by now.
“If you’ve quite finished . . .” he says.
“Sorry,” Beast murmurs, wiping his eyes with his massive fist. "What will you do?”
“Lie as convincingly as I can and pray she doesn’t kill someone important.”
This glum reply sets off Beast’s laughter anew until Duval has to reach out and kick him to get him to shut up. “You’re scaring the other patrons,” he mutters. “Now, tell me what news you bring from england, since I was not able to hear it from Runnion.”
“Runnion truly did not reach you? what happened to him?” de Lornay asks.
Duval jerks his head up toward the ceiling and my room.
Beast’s eyes widen. “
She
happened to Runnion? But I thought the convent served Brittany?”
“It does, or so I believe. But there has been a breakdown in our communications, which is why they’ve saddled me with this green stripling of a novitiate.”
De Lornay leans forward, his face aflush with curiosity. “Have you bedded her yet?”
Beast’s face takes on a rapt look. “They say to lie with a handmaiden of Death is the sweetest end imaginable.”
“They do?” Duval looks momentarily surprised. which is nothing to how I feel at this announcement. No one at the convent has thought to mention this to me.
De Lornay shakes his head. “That is but a rumor,” he says with great authority.
The other two turn to look at him.
He shrugs. “I didn’t realize she was from the convent until the next morning, when the corrupt commander was found dead.”
Although it is small of me, I cannot help but wonder who he has lain with. Sybella? Or one of the older initiates?
"Enough.” Duval holds up his hand. “I would have your news from the english king.”
Beast’s face grows somber. “He would not speak to us himself,” he says.
“Or so his chancellor claimed,” de Lornay adds. "We could never be sure which it was.”
"Either way, official channels were closed to us.”
"What about unofficial channels?”
“Ah, that is where we learned much, and most of it contradictory.” There is a long moment of silence, then Beast speaks. “The english king is considering an offer from the French regent. She will pay him an annual pension if he will not stand in the way of France invading Brittany.”
Duval strikes the table with his fist, making us all jump. "Even after all the aid we gave him in his struggle for the crown?”
Beast nods. "Even after.”
“There is some good news,” de Lornay offers.
“It would have to be very good to counter that,” Duval says.
"Well, for one, the French regent is reluctant to pay the fifty thousand crowns the king is asking for. But more important, the english king let it be known that he would put aside the negotiations and lend us aid if we would give him the four Breton cities the French still hold.”
Duval lifts his goblet and studies it. "Everyone has a price, it seems.” He falls silent a moment, then shakes his head. “I fear the age of kingdoms and duchies is coming to an end. France is eating its way through europe like a beggar at a banquet.” He leans back and fixes his companions with a considering gaze. “The French regent is doing her best to outfox our every attempt to join with our allies. The question is, is she simply being cautious and anticipating our moves? Or does she have specific knowledge of our plans?”
Beast and de Lornay exchange a look. “I thought we were the only ones who knew our plans, outside of the Privy Council.”
"Exactly,” Duval says, "Which is what makes it such a burning question. If someone is feeding our secrets to the French, it is one of Anne’s closest advisors. And now we must wonder if that traitor is the same one who called this estate meeting or if there is a second traitor we must deal with.”
They all digest this somber question in silence, then Duval lifts his goblet and drains it, grimacing at the dregs he’d forgotten in the bottom. “To bed, I think. we’ve an early start.”
They stand up and clatter out of the room, and I turn and begin making my way back to my own chamber. I had hoped to learn something that incriminated Duval. Instead, I have learned just the opposite. even when I am not present, his story is the same.
why, then, would he not discuss this in front of me? Unless he truly does not trust the convent? I bite back a sigh of frustration. Things would be much easier if I could just prove him traitor and be done with it. But no matter how I turn each word and gesture upside down, looking for hidden meaning and betrayal, I can find none.