Madame Hivern sits between two of the coastal barons and I wonder just how close she is to making her move. Her hand was brilliantly played; she waited for d’Albret to quit the field, and now her opposition has been reduced by half.
My gaze then turns to François, who is always at the heart of whatever festivities are taking place. Twice he has tried to pull me into his merrymaking, but both times I have politely refused. I do not have the heart for his flirtations.
The blare of a sackbut heralds the arrival of the evening’s entertainment, and a parade of masked performers troop into the great hall. The leader wears a donkey-headed mask and is followed by an ape, a lion, and a bear. The bear is real and reminds me uncannily of Captain Dunois.
An old bent-over man pushes a cart holding two fools. Another fool gambols in, a pig bladder hanging from the stick over his shoulder. It is mayhem as they cavort and frolic, looking both humorous and grotesque. The fools draw up to the tables and begin dicing with the diners.
The duchess has eyes only for Isabeau, who laughs and claps her hands, delighted. Another mummer comes in rolling a great barrel. There is a rapid beating of drums, a dark, primitive sound. A stag-headed man bursts out of the barrel and leaps into the fray; he represents the patron saint of horned creatures, Dea Matrona’s consort. He is killed every year at the end of harvest so he may rise again when Dea Matrona gives birth to the new year.
The music changes yet again, and a man dressed as a young maid and holding a bouquet of flowers frolics between the tables. The music deepens, grows more terrifying. Out from the shadows steps the black-robed, skeletal figure of Death Himself. everyone gasps.
The maid tries to run, but four masked men leap out of the shadows riding four stick horses. Their red and black masks obscure their faces, and I shudder. They are hellequin, the wild Hunt who came for Dea Matrona’s daughter and carried her away to Death’s underworld, leaving Dea Matrona to make our world stark and barren in her sorrow.
The maiden evades them. Once. Twice. But the third time, the hellequin surround her. My heart begins to beat faster. Surely this is too frightening for young Isabeau?
I look to see how she is faring, and my breath catches in my throat when I see how close the hellequin have drawn to the high table. Some inner alarm — perhaps Mortain’s own whisper — sounds in my head, and I am on my feet, pushing through the cavorting mummers, reaching for the crossbow hidden beneath my overskirt.
The entire court gasps as a hellequin leaps onto the table in front of the duchess and draws a knife. Most think it is part of the play. Duval and Dunois know better and reach for their swords, but they are too far away. with a heartfelt prayer to my god, I slap the quarrel in place and pull the trigger.
The quarrel catches the hellequin in the back of the neck, just below the protection of his mask. He freezes; the knife drops from his spasming fingers, and he topples forward.
The duchess just manages to leap away in time to keep from being crushed by his falling body. Dark red blood splatters onto her pale face.
The pandemonium is instantaneous.
Ladies scream, courtiers shout and scramble away. Men-atarms pour in from the corridor and surround the mummers, who look in shocked silence at the dead hellequin.
Captain Dunois’s eyes widen in admiration. "Excellent shot.”
I incline my head in acknowledgment of his compliment. “Catch Isabeau,” I tell Duval just before she crumples. But Duval’s reflexes are quick and he snatches her before she hits the floor. "Waroch! De Lornay! Question them.” He nods his head toward the stunned mummers. “Your Grace, I think we should get you back to your quarters,” he says to the duchess.
Pale and trembling, the duchess nods shakily and follows him as he carries their sister back to the solar. Marshal Rieux stares at me as if he fears I, too, have sprung from the mummer’s drum. "What is the meaning of this?” Rieux thumps his hand on the table.
Chancellor Crunard steps in to smooth things over. “I think explanations are best made in private. Perhaps we should all adjourn to the duchess’s chambers.” His eyes seek out mine. “You as well, demoiselle,” he says.
Now that the moment is over and the danger passed, my body begins to tremble. So close. Too close. Ignoring the whispers and the pointing, I follow them out of the hall. was the assassin a parting gift from d’Albret? Or an opening shot fired by some new enemy?
Chapter Thirty-eight
"Who is this woman?” Marshal Rieux demands.
I ignore his question, go to the ewer near the duchess’s canopied bed, and pour water into the basin. I grab a linen cloth from the stand nearby, wet it, then carry it to her. “May I?”
She looks at me in puzzlement.
“You have blood on your face,” I explain.
Her eyes widen in horror and she gives a frantic nod. Gently I begin sponging the spatters from her cheek. Now that she is safe, I am calm. The god truly guided my hand, for I could never have made that shot otherwise. Let the others say what they will, they cannot take that away from me.
"Who is she, Duval? we knew she was not your niece. I, for one, did not begrudge you a lightskirt — ”
“Careful.” Duval’s voice is a warning growl.
“ — but clearly she is much more than any of us guessed.”
“Some knew.” Duval shoots a glance Crunard’s way. It is an excellent strategy. This whole idea was cooked up between the chancellor and the abbess, so let Crunard answer to his irate fellow council members.
“Chancellor Crunard? Did you know about this? who is she and what just happened out there?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Crunard’s signet rings flash as he steeples his fingers. “She has been sent to court by the abbess of St. Mortain.”
I feel all the eyes in the room staring at my back.
“I thought they were the stuff of nightmares,” Rieux mutters quietly.
“But no,” I say innocently. “I am saint sent to aid our duchess and our country, Marshal Rieux. Unless our duchess’s triumph is your nightmare, you have nothing to fear from me.”
He turns accusingly to Anne. “Did you know her identity, Your Grace?”
The duchess raises her chin. “I knew that she served Saint Mortain and that He had sent her to me in my hour of need.”
"Why were the rest of us not told?” the marshal asks.
Crunard shrugs. "We thought the fewer who knew, the easier to keep her identity hidden. Surely, Marshal, you do not tell me every bit of your military strategy?”