“Now more than ever,” she says, her voice firm. “The only path open to me is one I cannot take. It is weak of me, I know, but . . .” Her voice falters and she turns stricken eyes on me. “I cannot,” she whispers. “D’Albret terrifies me.”
“I do not blame you, Your Grace. He terrifies me as well. No one should ask such a sacrifice from you.”
She is somewhat comforted by my words, and we walk in silence a short way before she speaks again. “You have seen Lord Nemours, yes? How did you find him?” She is every bit the twelve-year-old girl eager to meet her new suitor.
"Were you not betrothed to him once before?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Yes, but I have not ever seen him.”
"We-ell, he is quite old, with a long white beard and crooked back. And his teeth are yellow.”
Her look of horror turns to one of exasperation when she realizes I am joking, and then she laughs. “You are as bad a tease as Duval,” she says. But my jest has worked. when we reach the chapel, the remnant of her laughter lingers in her eyes and plays about her lips.
The chapel is small and nearly empty, and I am pleased to see the nine niches under the crucifix honoring the old saints. The only other supplicant in the chapel wears a dark green cloak with the hood drawn close around his head. At our approach, he rises to his feet and pulls the hood from his face, revealing the red-gold hair and handsome face of Fedric of Nemours. He and the duchess stare at each other for a long moment, and then he gives an elaborate, courtly bow.
“Lord Nemours?” she says, a small spark of hope lighting her face. “You may wait by the door,” she murmurs to me, then lifts her skirts and joins Nemours in a pew at the front of the church.
I take up position at the door, folding my hands and trying to look as if I am praying rather than pining of curiosity.
Their voices are but soft murmurs, and Anne’s manner is somewhat awkward at first, but Nemours quickly puts the duchess at ease. Once I see their heads draw together and hear soft laughter, I turn my thoughts to my own plans.
Chancellor Crunard’s words still echo in my ears: By all means, search d’Albret for one of those marques. why had I not realized that I must search d’Albret before I can be certain there is no marque upon him?
Because I am a coward, that is why.
But surely Crunard is correct in where my duties lie, and the abbess would want me to create every opportunity to determine if d’Albret bears a marque anywhere on his body.
A strike to the head is not the only way to kill a man.
* * *
Unwilling to face her fractious barons that evening, the duchess decides to dine in her chambers with her sister. I cannot help but wonder if it is also to hide the smile she now wears. Truly, she and Nemours are well matched, and his suit is a gift from both God and the saints. even better, if there is no formal court tonight, it will be easier for me to go in search of some answers.
My brief meeting with Chancellor Crunard and an afternoon of prayer have convinced me that I have made a grave error in assuming Mortain would marque d’Albret in plain sight. As the abbess is so fond of reminding me, that is not how our saint works. Indeed, the man may well have been marqued for days — someplace where I cannot see it.
I glance around the dim hallway, trying to get my bearings in the east wing of the castle, the section assigned to d’Albret. A pair of doors stand wide open. Raised voices and laughter spill out into the hall along with the candlelight. The laughter has an unpleasant edge to it, a faint tinge of cruelty that makes my heart beat faster and my hands long to reach for the knives at my wrists. Instead, I force them down to my sides, where they grip the heavy velvet of my gown.
I have given much thought as to how I will extricate myself should d’Albret not bear a marque but have yet to come up with a satisfactory plan. I would like to believe I can just turn and walk away, but I fear it will not be that easy. The boys in the village had ugly names and taunts for girls who promised kisses but never delivered them. even so, I take a deep breath and slip silently into the chamber.
The room is full of noblemen and their retainers, and half the nobles sprawl in chairs drinking wine. D’Albret himself sits in the middle, arrogance apparent in every line of his body, from the way he lounges in his chair to the disdainful gaze with which he surveys the room.
Even as anticipation surges through me, my mind whirs. I know I cannot just glide up to him and ask that he unlace his doublet so that I might peer at his chest. Once again I curse my awkward, graceless nature. Sybella and even Annith would know what to do.
And then it comes to me. I have only to pretend I am Sybella. She would find an excuse to approach her target, then she would wrap her delicate web of seduction around him. I glance at the room, pleased when I spy a half-full flagon of wine on one of the chests. I pick it up and make my way toward d’Albret.
Feeling more sure of myself now, I slip around the knot of men so that I can approach d’Albret from behind. The fact that he and his men have eyes only for their own magnificence makes this easier than it should be. I take a deep breath and remember Sybella’s throaty laugh, the way her lip curls delicately so that you cannot be certain who she is laughing at, the tilt of her head and the slant of her eyes as she peers at you, trying to decide if you are worth her efforts.
At my approach, the man on d’Albret’s left looks up. Having been spotted, I can delay no longer. even though my fingers are desperate to pull away, I force them to rest lightly on d’Albret’s shoulder. He smells of wine and sweat and the braised venison he had for dinner. I curl my lip in a knowing smile and lower my voice. “My lord,” I purr. “May I refill your wine cup?”
He lifts his head and somehow manages to look down his haughty nose at me even though I stand over him. He holds up his goblet, and his eyes narrow in recognition. “Ah, what do we have here?”
As I pour his wine — slowly — my eyes inspect every inch of exposed flesh, looking for the faintest hint of Mortain’s dark shadow. There is none. Merde. That means I must take this even farther. when his goblet is full, I clutch the flagon to my chest and cast my eyes downward. “It is just as you said, my lord. I fear I am left alone far more than I would like.” I glance up from under my lashes in time to see a triumphant smile spread across his thick lips. My heart skips a beat and I look down once more so he will not see how badly I wish to strike that smile from his face.
“Leave us,” he tells the others abruptly. There is a moment of surprised silence, then, with knowing winks and a bold comment or two, the other men file out of the chamber. The last one to leave shuts the door behind him.