I jerk my head back as if I have been slapped. “No, milord. I had thought only to pray for your soul if Madame Hivern had seen fit to poison you. Nothing more.” And with that, I turn and flee the room, then bolt the door against the disturbing glimpse of both his soul and mine. whatever games are being played here, he is a master at them, and I will do well to remember that.
* * *
Things are strained between us the next morning. I won’t meet Duval’s eyes nor he mine as we take our leave and gallop from the yard. The sun rises, and the early-morning mist swirls up off the ground in gentle eddies, like steam from a simmering pot. Our awkward silence follows us on the road to Guérande. Nocturne doesn’t like that I hold myself so rigidly, and she whinnies. I force myself to relax my shoulders.
For his part, Duval acts as if I don’t exist. At least as far as La Baule. Then he turns in his saddle, his face stiff with discomfort. “I am sorry I insulted you last night. I was angry with Madame Hivern, and you presented an easy target. Please accept my apologies.” Then he turns forward again, leaving me to gape at his back.
No one has ever apologized to me before. Certainly not my family, or the nuns. It is disturbing, this apology, as if my feelings matter when I know that they do not. It is what Mortain and the convent want that is important. even so, I cannot help but whisper, “I accept,” mostly to myself. Or so I think — until I see Duval nod once, then put his heels to his horse.
Chapter Sixteen
Even though I grew up only three leagues away, I have never been to Guérande. My father went, many times, and he used each of those to taunt me with what he had seen. I had thought he exaggerated in order to rub my nose in what I had missed. Now I see that he did not.
The town is entirely enclosed within thick stone walls that stretch as far as my eye can see. eight watchtowers loom at regular intervals. I understand now why the duchess has chosen this city for her headquarters. Surely those walls are impenetrable.
Provided the enemy comes from without.
As we draw closer to the city, I see a crowd near the gate tower. Legions of servants and carts piled high with household goods block the road. Knights and noble lords mill about on horseback, their horses prancing impatiently at the delay. Duval mutters an oath. “I will not reach the palace till midnight at this rate.”
“Are they refugees?” I ask, remembering the desperate families and townspeople who had been displaced by the Mad war.
Duval looks at me askance. “No. They are here for the estates Assembly. Come, we will try the north gate.”
Before he can wheel his mount around, a trumpet sounds from behind. A standard-bearer approaches, his gold and blue banner snapping briskly in the crisp autumn air. A long entourage snakes behind him on the road, the outriders and trumpeters heralding its arrival. People and horses do their best to make way, but it is a narrow road and there is nowhere to go.
The knights do not slow down. They gallop full tilt into the crowd, forcing people to leap from the bridge or risk being trampled. I recognize the banner at once; it is that of Count d’Albret, one of the wealthiest Breton nobles and one of the duchess’s suitors. A most insistent one, according to Sister Eonette.
The count is surrounded by men-at-arms, so my only impression of him is one of great girth and a lathered horse with far too many spur marks upon its flanks. It is enough for me to take an immediate dislike to the man. even so, I am surprised by the intensity of Duval’s reaction — his eyes grow dark and flinty, while his lip curls in disgust. I cannot help but note that there are now two people we both heartily dislike — Madame Hivern and Count d’Albret — and I am reminded of Sister Eonette’s maxim that our enemy’s enemy often makes a good ally.
Duval tears his gaze away from the count and looks to the road. “I think we can get through now,” he says, then puts his heels to his horse. It leaps forward. Caught off-guard, I do my best to follow, but I am not as quick. Nocturne balks, then bolts out in front of an approaching horse. My hands are so full trying to manage Nocturne that I barely spare a glance for the other rider. As she struggles to regain control, she utters a foul oath at her mount.
The familiar voice is like a pail of icy water down my back. I whip my head around, but she has already passed. All I can see is her slender shoulders and the defiant tilt of her head. Until she turns around to send me a scathing glance, annoyance writ plain on her face.
Sybella.
My heart begins to race even as the rest of the riders converge on the road between us and she is lost to my eyes. Jubilation surges through me. She is alive! And in Guérande! That is more than I knew before. It is enough to lighten my heart as I hurry to catch up to Duval.
Once we are inside the city, our horses clop down the cobbled streets. Stone and timber houses jut jauntily into the street, like gossiping housewives. Shops line the narrow lanes, their shutters drawn up to display bolts of wool and silk, perfumed oils, and all manner of goods. we pass candle makers’ stalls and food stalls. I look longingly at the latter. Our breakfast was hours ago. “Try not to gawk,” Duval says, amused.
“I am not gawking,” I say, piqued that he has caught me.
“You most certainly are. Have you never been to a town before?”
“Not one this size,” I admit reluctantly.
Duval shakes his head. “At least you will have no trouble playing the country rustic.”
It is clear that Duval wants to gallop through the town, straight to court. He holds himself in check, however, as we are boxed in by townspeople and pedestrians clogging the streets and hurrying about. Trying to avoid these, we turn down a side street. Duval mutters an oath as we come upon an overturned cart blocking the road. Bags of grain and flour spill out onto the cobbled street, and the driver studies the broken axle in dismay.
“This way,” Duval orders, turning into a narrow alley.
we have gone but a few paces when Duval gives a garbled shout. He reaches for his sword as three men drop seemingly from the sky into his path. Another one lands directly behind him, on the horse itself. The beast stumbles, but he is battle trained and quickly recovers. The stallion prances and snorts, nearly trampling one of the assailants. Duval shoves his elbow deep into the belly of the attacker behind him, dislodging him from the horse. “Turn back!” Duval shouts.
But I am not some simpering maid to flee at the threat of a fight. There is a ringing of steel as Duval draws his sword, then he is swinging at a second man who is trying to pull him from his saddle. even as the wet, soft thunk tells me the blade has connected with flesh and bone, I am reaching for the long knife at my ankle.