But too late.
Two — no, three — more men emerge from the shadows. Nocturne prances and rears. One of them grabs my bridle, then has to dance backwards to avoid Nocturne’s flailing hooves. I free my knife and regain my balance. I kick my right foot out of the stirrup, swing my leg over the saddle, and send both feet into the face of my attacker. He reels back, giving me just enough room to get my long knife between us.
But my movements have unbalanced me again and I am pitched from the saddle. I use the momentum and throw myself forward, landing neatly on my feet. I lunge to meet the bandit.
He does not see my knife in time.
His eyes widen as it sinks into his belly. I brace myself, but there is no whisper of soul. Not a killing blow, then. There is a sucking sound as I pull the blade out, but before I can strike again, another man is upon us.
I duck low to avoid his short sword and spin out from under his swing. There is a whinny from Nocturne as the blade misses me and cuts along her flank.
A hot wave of fury crashes through me and I straighten for my next strike but my hand explodes in pain as one of the men’s kicks finds its target. My knife clatters to the cobbles.
The two men draw together, silent but deadly, as their companion writhes on the ground, his hand clamped to his middle to keep his guts from spilling onto the street.
I reach through the slit in my skirt, hand closing around the smooth, worn handle. when I pull the misericorde free, the bandit on my left laughs at the puniness of my weapon.
I smile.
One nick, the abbess said. Just one scratch. And while I am loath to use a weapon of grace on two men such as these, I am certain Mortain will forgive me, as we are allowed to kill in self-defense.
I settle into my fighting stance.
The man spits out a mouthful of blood, then rushes forward with his short sword thrust out. Merde, but he is stupid. Does he truly think I will just stand here and wait to be skewered?
I duck under the outthrust blade and roll onto the ground, swiping at the man’s ankle as I pass. when I come up on my knees, there is a puzzled look upon his face. He stops moving and slowly sinks to the ground, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. There is a flutter of his passing soul, but it disappears quickly.
His companion’s eyes widen at this uncanny trick. If he is smart, he will run, but he is not. He panics and lunges forward. I leap back and get the misericorde between us. It connects with his bony knuckles, just a scratch, but he stiffens, and then looks from his cut to my face.
“You cannot win against Mortain’s own,” I whisper. Then he, too, settles to the ground, as if giving a deep curtsy. Another fluttering of soul, then nothing. I frown at my lack of connection with their souls and wonder if that is another gift of grace with the misericorde, that the victims’ dying thoughts remain private.
The sound of steel scraping on stone pulls my attention back to Duval. Three of his assailants are down; the fourth is backed against the wall. As I approach, the remaining bandit glances my way. It is the merest slip, but Duval uses the distraction to force his way inside the man’s guard and strike him on the head with the butt of his sword. The man’s eyes roll up in his sockets and he slides to the ground.
“I will save you for questioning,” Duval says, then turns his attention to me. “Are you hurt?”
I glance down and see that one of the blades has sliced through the fabric of my gown. A faint line of red wells up on the meaty part of my arm. “Just a scratch. And you?” I ask, because it seems polite.
“Fine,” he says curtly. His gaze moves beyond me to the three men I’ve dispatched. “Sweet Jesu!” He hurries over to where they lie and kneels to feel for their pulses. “All of them dead,” he announces.
“I know.” I try to keep the pride from my voice. A sense of triumph races through me and I am nearly giddy with it. I have bested three men, and though the test was harder than any at the convent, I passed with flying colors. even better, I fought as well as Duval. I wonder how to compose my message informing the abbess of this without sounding as if I am bragging.
"What happened to your horse?”
My spirits crash back to earth at Duval’s question. I whirl around, shocked to see that Nocturne is lying on the ground, her sleek black side drenched in sweat and heaving like a bellows. “She was only scratched,” I tell him as I rush over to kneel beside her. The acrid tang of bitterroot fills my nose and there are flecks of bloody foam upon her lips.
“Poison.” even as I say the word, I can feel the fevered heat coming off of her. “No mere bandits, then. They wanted us dead.” I run my hand down Nocturne’s silky flank, trying to comfort her. “Do you have so very many enemies?” I ask Duval.
“It would appear that I do,” he says. “The better question is, Should I be flattered that they set seven upon me? Or does that mean someone knew I would be traveling with a skilled fighter?”
The full implication of what he has said hits me. “Are you suggesting the abbess sent them? Or Chancellor Crunard?” I am barely able to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
He shrugs. “It seems whoever sent them knew that both of us could fight.”
I am tempted to ask if he also suspects Beast or de Lornay, but then I would have to reveal that I overheard their conversation, and I am not willing to do that. Not yet.
Is it possible that Duval had sent them on ahead to arrange such a thing? would he have staged an attack in order to rid himself of me?
"We must put her out of her misery,” Duval says gently.
His words remind me of what I must do, and while I long to ease Nocturne’s suffering, I am saddened beyond reason that I must bid her farewell.
"Would you like me to do it?” Duval’s voice is nothing but kind. There is no hint of condescension in it, but I act as if there is. Getting angry is the only way I can bear this. “I am trained in death,” I remind him. “I need no help.”
“None of us are trained to kill those who have served us well and faithfully,” he says. “It is a special agony all its own, and I would spare you if I could.” There is a note of sorrow in his voice and I know — know— that he has had to do this very thing. His sympathy makes the pain of losing Nocturne worse, as if my feelings for her are not some childish affection I should have put aside long ago. “I am not weak.” To prove my words, I reach down and grasp my knife handle.
“I never said that you were.” His voice is still gentle, as if he sees how much this is hurting.