It is no easy or pleasant thing to examine d’Albret for a marque. Ismae claims it is a way for the god to keep us humble, marquing men where we cannot easily see. I say it is the god’s own perverted sense of humor, and if I ever come face to face with Him, I shall complain.
But after today’s spectacular bit of treachery, d’Albret must be marqued for death at last. It is the one reason I allowed myself to be sent back, because the abbess promised he would be marqued and that I could be the one to kill him.
For once, luck is with me: the chambermaid is none other than Tilde, Odette’s sister. Which means I have something with which to bargain. I find her in the kitchen, filling up jugs with hot water for his bath. When I tell her what I need, she looks at me with the frightened eyes of a cornered doe. “But if the count sees you . . .” she protests.
“He won’t see me,” I assure her. “Not unless you give me away by looking at my hiding place. Do not be so stupid as to do that, and we will both be fine.”
She begins chewing her lip, which is already ragged from her constant worry. “And you will get Odette away from here? As soon as possible?”
“Yes. I will get her away tomorrow morning when the first delivery comes to the kitchens. She will be hidden in the cart as it leaves.” I will smuggle the girl out even if Tilde and I do not reach an agreement. The child reminds me far too much of my own sisters, who, if not for my desperate machinations, would be here in this vipers’ nest with me now.
It was the biggest argument I had with my father since the convent forced me to return to his household six months ago. Last autumn when he made ready to travel to Guérande to put his case before the meeting of the barons, he was planning on bringing all his children. He wanted them nearby, where he could use them for his own ends and needs. I argued long and hard that little Louise was too young—and ill—to make the trip. And that Charlotte was too close to young womanhood to be near so many soldiers. He ignored me and had their nurse administer them each a sound beating—simply to punish me—then ordered their things packed.
But I would do anything to keep my sisters from d’Albret’s dark influences. Including poison them.
Not too much. While I am not immune to poisons as Ismae is, I did pay careful attention to Sister Serafina’s poison lessons and used only enough to make both my sisters and their nurse too ill to travel.
I blamed it on the eel pie.
Little Odette is in every bit as much danger as my sisters but has none of the protection afforded them by virtue of their noble blood. So I will get her to safety regardless, although I do not tell Tilde that.
“Very well,” Tilde says at last, her eyes taking in my borrowed servant’s gown and headscarf. “You have certainly dressed the part.”
I give her an encouraging smile when what I want to do is wring her skinny neck so she will quit talking and get on with it. That would not, however, reassure her.
She thrusts a copper jug at me. It is full of steaming water and so heavy I nearly drop it before I can settle my grip to the handles. Together we begin our climb up the back stairs to d’Albret’s bedchamber. We meet no other servants on the way. Indeed, since d’Albret has taken over the palace, most of them stay out of sight as much as possible. They are nearly invisible, like enchanted servants in a hearth tale.
Once inside the room, I set my jug down next to the tub in front of the fire and look for a hiding place.
Two of the walls are covered in carved wooden paneling and two are covered in fine crimson and gold wall hangings. I make for the wall hangings, a spot just behind an ornately carved chest, which should hide my feet from view should they show beneath the curtains. “Remember, do not look over here, no matter what happens.”
Tilde glances up, a new flare of alarm in her eyes. “What would happen, demoiselle? You said nothing would happen, that you just wanted—”
“I merely meant that no matter how nervous you get or what the baron does, do not look over here. It could mean both our deaths.”
Her eyes widen and for a moment I think she will lose her nerve altogether. “For your sister’s sake,” I remind her, hoping to strengthen her resolve.
It works. She gives a firm nod and turns to the task of filling the tub. I slip into my hiding place behind the silk wall hangings and pray they will not also serve as my shroud.
The stone wall is cold against my back, and the curtains part just the slightest bit. If I bend my knee a little, I do not even need to touch the silk to be able to see into the room.
I have not been in place longer than a handful of moments before there is a noise at the door. Tilde freezes, then resumes pouring water from the ewer into the tub.
The chamber door bursts open and Count d’Albret strides in, followed by a handful of retainers, my half brothers Pierre and Julian among them. Although they share the same parents, they look nothing alike. Pierre takes after our father, with a thick build and coarse manner, while Julian favors their mother, with more refined looks and manner. D’Albret unbuckles his sword, and Bertrand de Lur steps forward to take it from him. “I want another score of men riding for Rennes tonight,” d’Albret tells his captain. “I want them in the city as soon as possible, hiding among the citizens. I’ll need reliable eyes and ears there if we are to retaliate against her treachery.”
My pulse quickens.
“As you wish, my lord.” De Lur takes the sword and lays it on one of the chests.
D’Albret shrugs his massive, bull-like shoulders, and my brother Pierre jumps forward to take his mantle before it can fall to the ground. “I want them to report on the city’s mood, the garrison, the provisions. I want to know if the city can withstand a siege, and for how long. They are to find out who is loyal to the duchess, who is loyal to the French, and whose loyalty is still for sale.”
“Consider it done, my lord,” de Lur says.
Pierre leans forward, his hooded eyes bright. “And what of your message to the duchess? When shall we send it?”
Like a striking snake, d’Albret reaches out and clouts him across the mouth. “Did I give you leave to speak of the matter, whelp?”
“No, my lord.” Pierre dabs the blood from his split lip, looking resentful and sullen. I could almost feel sorry for him, but he has worked so hard to become just like d’Albret that I feel nothing but contempt.
The room grows quiet and I angle my eye to better see d’Albret. He is studying Tilde, who is concentrating very carefully on the steaming ewer of water she is pouring into the tub. “Leave me to my bath,” d’Albret tells the others.