The door hinges, which should creak with age and rust, are as silent as moth wings. I slip inside and shut the door behind me.
In the faint moonlight shining in through the arrow slit, the dark shadows flutter and float gently through the air. Those that are not huddling next to me are drifting downward. Down it is, then, for ghosts are ever attracted to the warmth and comfort of life.
The stairs descend in a tight circle, and I put my hands on the wall to guide me. It would not do to fall and break my neck. The stone is rougher here and wet with dampness from the nearby river, the steps crumbled slightly with age.
At the foot of the stairs is another locked door.
It is the smell that reaches me first. A rank mixture of mold and mildew, old blood and human filth. I brace myself for the worst, but I find only an antechamber. On the far side is yet another door, this one with a high window covered in narrow iron bars. Faint light flickers from within. Quiet as one of the ghosts who trail after me, I cross the small space.
When I reach the third door, I press myself against the wall so I cannot be seen through the bars. I wait for a dozen heartbeats, but no one comes.
Slowly, with my heart hammering against my ribs, I inch to the grille and peer inside.
A lone torch casts a faint light into the dark chamber, and shadows bounce and flicker against the stone wall. Someone is moving about and making strange formless noises to himself. In truth, it looks like a small gnome or dwarf from a hearth tale, but then I see it is simply a man who is gnarled and bent over. At first I think he is chortling and dancing, and then I realize that he is lame in one leg and that is merely how he shuffles across the chamber. And the chortling is chewing—he is gnawing on a stale crust of bread. Disgusted, I tear my eyes from him and survey the rest of the room. An ale pot, a chamber pot, a wooden ledge for sleeping and sitting. And another be-damned door sits in the far wall.
I pull away, back against the wall once more. Is that all that is keeping this knight imprisoned? Four locked doors—at least two of which have the same key—and a decrepit old man?
I wonder, and then I scoff at the stupidity of my own question. Of course he is still alive, for they would not set a guard—not even one such as the little gargoyle in there—to watch over a corpse.
Unless they wanted to be certain no one found out he was dead.
Holding my breath, I let my senses explore the locked room. I feel the twisted little man’s heart beating strong and steady. Coming from beyond the door, fainter and slower, is the beat of a second pulse. The knight is alive, at least for now.
Almost as if he feels my mind searching out his, the prisoner groans.
The little guard shuffles over to the prisoner’s door and makes some guttural noise through the grille. The prisoner groans louder, and the sound is followed by the rattle of heavy chains. He is manacled, then, and his chains are the origin of the rumors of ghosts.
I stay and watch for a while longer, trying to get a feel for the guard’s rhythm: when he sleeps, and how deeply, and if he ever leaves. But he does not. He pisses in a pot in the far corner. There is a small pile of stores against the east wall, a keg of ale. He pauses to grunt at the prisoner now and then, but whether it is an encouragement or a taunt, I cannot tell. When I have tarried as long as I dare, I inch away from the door. It would not do to grow careless now and kick a stone or shuffle my feet. As I begin making my way up the stairs, I decide it has been a decent enough night’s work. I know where the knight is, that he is alive, and how he is guarded.
What I do not know is how I will get him out of there without getting us both killed in the process.
WHEN I RETURN TO MY chamber, instead of crawling into bed, I go to the table and take two fat white candles from their holders. I shove one on the end of the poker near the fireplace, then hold the poker next to the flames. It is tricky, as I do not want the candle to drip away, only to soften enough that I can mold and shape it. When I judge it ready, I pull it from the heat. Working quickly before it cools, I shove the tower key into the soft wax, pushing so that it makes a deep impression. I soften the second candle in the same way, then press it down on top of the first.
Once that is done, I use a knife to whittle away all the extra wax so that my mold is as small as possible. I toss the shavings into the fire and hide the wax casting in one of my velvet jewelry pouches.
It is a long, tense walk back to Madame Dinan’s chamber, but as I go, a plan begins to form, as fragile and tenuous as a spider’s web.
I have followed the convent and Mortain’s wishes so far, and it has brought nothing but tragedy. Even worse, d’Albret is still alive and spewing his evil across the land. It is long past time for me to fulfill the role the abbess had planned for me, with or without her orders. I will kill him, marque or no.
But I will attempt to free the prisoner first. If, as I suspect, he is too wounded and broken to make the trip to Rennes, I will grant him a small mercy and put him out of his misery, for certainly that is what I would wish for if it were me.
I will not even make him beg.
In the morning, I convince Tephanie and Jamette that we must go into town. I cannot march up to a blacksmith and demand he make me a key without raising a host of questions. So instead, I tell my attendants that I must find a silversmith to repair one of my favorite belts. Jamette wants to know why, if it is one of my favorites, she has never seen it before. Tephanie comes to my rescue. “Because it is broken, you ninny!” She is as excited as a young child at the thought of an outing and begins chattering about the monkey one of the soldiers saw in town.
Even though impatience makes me want to hurry, because of Jamette and our escort of guards, I force myself to browse the stalls. I stop to rub some bright red satin between my fingers and admire the thick rich nap in a piece of green velvet. Smelling money, the shopkeepers cluster around us like flies on a drop of honey. I flirt and pretend I am seriously considering a bolt of blue damask. All the while, Jamette watches me far too closely, as if memorizing every move I make, every word that comes from my lips. I half expect her to pull a scrap of parchment from her sleeve and begin making notes, and I have no doubt she would, if she could write.
At last we come to the street of silversmiths, the faint sound of the rapid tapping of their hammers as distinct as a hailstorm. I pretend to shop for a silver bauble, but I am actually searching for a smith who looks stouthearted and trustworthy and not inclined to run tattling to the castle in the hopes of currying favor with the new lord. I find just such a man—or so I hope—at the third shop we visit.
The silversmith puts down his hammer as we approach and comes forward with a bow. He is of middle years with a stolid face and strong hands that are roughened with a lifetime of scars from the hot metals he works with and silver dust is worked into the creases of his skin. A woman who has been sweeping the workroom—his wife, no doubt—hurries to join him.
As the smith draws closer, he glances at the men behind us. His look of pleasant greeting turns into one of guarded suspicion as he recognizes the standard and colors of the house of d’Albret emblazoned on our escorts’ tabards. His wife nudges him with her elbow and keeps her pleasant smile firmly in place.
“How may we serve you, my lady?” The smith’s cold, distant voice is at odds with his words.
“I have a belt that has broken a link, but it is of gold. Do you work in gold?”
“I do,” he says slowly, as if reluctant to admit such a thing if it will cause me to tarry at his shop.
The woman is less reluctant. “Gold is too valuable to put on display, my lady, but my husband’s skill is equal to any smith’s in the city.” The sure, quiet pride with which she says this moves me in some way I cannot explain.
The smith, however, sends her an aggrieved look, and that is when I know he wishes we would go elsewhere. Which makes him imminently suitable for the job I have in mind. “May I see the work, then?” I ask.
“Certainly, my lady. Let me fetch a tray.”
I hold up a hand. “Wait. I wish to see the work area before I decide. I will not leave my valuables in a pigsty.”
The good wife bristles at this, but opens the half door to the workroom and curtsies.
“I will be right back,” I tell the others.
The smith and I move to the farthest workbench, and the wife excuses herself to fetch a tray of her husband’s best work. I hand the man my belt. As his practiced eye and sure hands move over the piece, probing it for weak links or breaks, I maneuver myself so that I am standing with my body blocking what we are doing. The smith frowns up at me. “There is nothing wrong with—”
“Shhh,” I say quietly. I step closer to him, as if I am looking at something he is showing me. “That is not my true commission for you. I have a key that needs copying.” I slip the velvet pouch out of the larger purse at my belt and hand the small blocks of wax to him. Keeping one eye on me, he opens the pouch to see the impressions of the key. “My lady, I am no blacksmith—”
I smile and say sharply, “Do you not think I can read the sign above your shop? This key is a gift for someone. Someone
” I smile coyly so that his mind goes precisely where I want it to. He frowns in disapproval and opens his mouth to refuse, but I pull a second, smaller pouch from my purse. “I will make the job—and your silence—worth your while.”
Just then, his wife comes back with a tray of finely worked gold belts, circlets, intricately carved cups, and paternosters. When she sees the bag, her face lights up. I hand her the pouch before the smith can refuse the job, knowing that once she closes her hand around those coins, she, like any good housewife, will not let them go.
“Oh, and one other thing,” I say, as if just remembering.
The smith looks at me, clearly vexed and wishing I would take myself far away from him and his shop. “I will be back in three hours for the . . . belt.”
“My lady!” he protests. “That is not nearly enough time.”
“Ah, but you will make the time, will you not?” Our gazes meet.
“But of course, my lady. I will make the time.”
We spend the rest of the day wandering around the shops of Nantes. Jamette buys a rose-colored ribbon and a gold-braided cord for her hair, a cord I cannot help but daydream of strangling her with. Tephanie looks at everything with hungry eyes, like a starved child, and I end up buying her a pretty comb for her hair. I assure myself it is only to make Jamette jealous.
Three hours later, the bells of Nantes cathedral call everyone to afternoon prayers. Even Jamette has worn out her penchant for shopping, and the guards’ eyes are rolling back in their heads from boredom, so we return to the silversmith’s.
He and his wife are waiting for us, and the look she gives me now is full of censure and reserve. The smith says nothing, no doubt counting the minutes until he can be rid of me. Once again, I am careful to stand with my body blocking the view of his workbench. “Is my belt ready?” I ask in a bright voice.
“Just as you asked, my lady.” He gives me the small velvet pouch at the same time he gives me the belt. The pouch is still warm from the hot metal of the newly made key. As I take them from his hand, my fingers grasp his. I pause. “If you speak of this to anyone, my life—and yours—will not be worth the ashes in your hearth.”
His eyes meet mine and then turn away. “And well I know it,” he mutters. “For that is no bedroom key.” He starts to pull his hand back, but I grip it tighter.
I do not know why, but I am filled with an urgent need to have this simple, honest man know that I am capable of decency. “Not everyone in the palace supports the baron.” I let all my artifice fall away so he may see the truth behind my words.
He studies me carefully a moment, then nods once in understanding.
“Thank you.” I give him a genuine smile this time and squeeze his hand. He blinks. “I will not jeopardize you or your family again, I swear it.”
Relief washes over his face, and I slip the key into the purse at my waist and leave.
D’ALBRET AND HIS MEN HAVE not yet returned from Ancenis when we retire for the evening. I wait for what feels like an eternity for Jamette and Tephanie to undress me and prepare me for bed. The fact that Jamette chatters like a nervous magpie does not help the time go by quicker. At long last, they finish their fussing and take their leave.
When I am finally alone, I go to my chest and look among my few poisons for one that is both swift and merciful, but I have none. Some are gentle but work slowly, and those that work quickly, cause too much pain and discomfort to be used for a merciful killing.
Instead, I remove my favorite knife and a sharpening stone, then go sit by the fire and begin sharpening the blade. I still do not know if the prisoner can sit a horse, or ride one, or if he is even conscious. If he is not, he will be of no use to the duchess. Not unless she can use his dead, martyred body to incite loyalists to take up arms.
He will not be marqued, but I no longer care about that.
It used to scare me, the idea of killing without a marque from Mortain to guide my hand, but now, stepping outside His grace holds no more fear for me. Especially since what little I know of that grace has been harsh. My biggest fear has always been that once I began killing at my own whim rather than Mortain’s, I would become no better than d’Albret. But over the past few days, I have begun to wonder if being the daughter of Death is any different than being the daughter of a cruel, sadistic murderer. There is little enough difference that I can see, so better to make my own choice in this, the one I think will do the most good.
The nuns’ warnings for the fate of my soul rise once more in my mind, but what the fool nuns did not realize is that my life is already a living hell, so trading one form for another is not so great a deterrent.
When a full hour has passed, I dress and collect the supplies I have selected. In addition to the night whispers and the newly sharpened knife, I arm myself with two other knives and a garrote bracelet as well as my lethal crucifix. If the knight must die tonight, then I will go immediately from the dungeon to d’Albret’s chamber, where it will be easy enough to gain access with him gone. Once there, I will simply lie in wait for him. Even he must sleep sometime. And when he does, I’ll make my move.
I will most likely not survive the attempt, but at least I will have tried, and surely that will prove that the darkness that lives in him does not live in me.
It is not the sort of escape I have prayed for, but it
When I reach my door I pause just long enough to feel a faint throb of a heart beating steadily on the other side. Is it Jamette with her constant spying? Or some new guard my father has posted?
I quickly prepare a half a dozen lies and excuses, then open the door.
It is Tephanie. She is rolled up tightly in her cloak, like a sausage in its casing, sleeping outside my door.