Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin - Страница 12
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The trip to d’Albret’s chambers lasts forever and puts me in mind of how a man approaching the gallows must feel. How long was de Lur watching me before he made his presence known? Did it appear to him as if I was just shooing away a crow, or feeding it, mayhap? Or did he see me take the message from the creature’s leg?
And what of d’Albret? Has he found some reason to tie me to the duchess’s escape? I was so careful. So very, very careful. I must continue to do everything in my power to assure him that I am committed to his cause so that he does not have his guard up when I am at last able to act. To force my mind away from its ceaseless worry, I anticipate all the ways I could kill d’Albret. It would be so satisfying to choke the life from him with a garrote around his fat neck. Or fillet his big white belly like a fish. But there is danger in those methods, for they require I get close to him, and he has uncanny strength and could possibly overpower me. Poison or a crossbow would be safest.
Too soon, we reach our destination, and Captain de Lur announces my arrival. Holding my head high and willing my heart to stop its wild, erratic beating, I step into the room.
Chapter Six
SUCH IS THE FORCE OF d’Albret’s presence that he’s managed to taint even the rich opulence of Duke Francis’s elegant palace. Everything, from the frescoes on the walls to the carved stag heads bursting from the overmantels, looks morbid and faintly threatening.
I sink into a deep curtsy. “My lord father, how may I serve you?” Because showing too much humility and blind obedience would ring false, I raise my eyes and allow them to fill with just a hint of mockery as they meet his cold, flat gaze.
“My prodigal daughter has deigned to pay me a visit. Where was she?” d’Albret asks the captain, his eyes never leaving mine.
“In the garden, talking to a crow.”
D’Albret arches one heavy black eyebrow, and I shrug as if mildly embarrassed. “My time at the convent of Saint Brigantia has given me an appreciation for wild things, my lord.” For that is the lie the abbess and I concocted to explain my long absence from d’Albret’s household: that I had retreated to the sisters of Brigantia for healing and training.
D’Albret snorts in disgust. “They have made you soft.” He turns to one of the guards at the door. “Go see if you can find this crow and catch it. Perhaps I will feed it to her for her supper.” A faint flutter of dismay moves in my breast, but hopefully the foolish bird will be long gone by now. If I am forced to eat my crow, of a surety I will spew it back up, and I will be certain to do so on d’Albret’s fine cordwain boots. The thought of that gives me some small measure of courage, and I am able to meet his gaze with true amusement in my own.
The guard bows once, then departs. “Search her,” d’Albret orders de Lur.
The captain glances uncertainly at d’Albret. At the count’s nod, de Lur slowly smiles, then moves to stand in front of me. The smirking pig puts his hands on my shoulders and then draws them down my arms, feeling every inch of my skin beneath the fabric of my sleeves.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of shuddering at his touch. Instead, I amuse myself by wondering if de Lur will try to stop me from fulfilling the convent’s order to kill d’Albret. If he does, I may have to kill him as well.
When his hand connects with the sheath strapped to my left wrist, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What is this?”
“’Tis but my knife, my lord. You would not expect a d’Albret to wander about unarmed?”
He starts to peel back my sleeve. “Careful,” I warn him. “The edge is most sharp.”
That gives him a moment’s pause. While he is still trying to decide if I have threatened him, I reach for my knife. As my fingers close around the handle, I carefully slip the tiny, rolled note against my palm before unsheathing the blade.
He glances warily at the sharp edge, then stuffs two fingers into the leather sheath at my wrist and begins poking around. I cast an annoyed look at d’Albret. “Is it seemly for him to enjoy it this much?”
“I told you to search her, not make love to her,” d’Albret says. “How would you like it if I did such to your daughter, eh?” The threat is unmistakable, and de Lur’s movements become much more circumspect.
However, when he reaches my buttocks, he cannot resist giving my cheeks a faint pinch. That is when I realize I am still holding my knife, and it is all I can do not to plunge it into his gut. Instead, I move my hand as if to return the knife to its sheath, but I do not pull the blade back quite far enough. The point of it rakes across his cheek.
He swears and shoves me away as he puts his hand to his face.
“I did warn you that it was sharp.”
His nostrils flare in fury, and he glances at d’Albret. “She carries nothing,” he says, “but a small dagger and an even smaller heart.”
I smile as if his words have pleased me greatly. D’Albret waves for him to step back. “You will be happy to know I have found a use for you at last, daughter.”
My heart gives one slow beat of dread, for I know d’Albret believes women have but two purposes: to bear him sons and to slake his lust. With his own daughters, he begrudgingly allows a third: to be used as a bargaining piece in marriages that will increase his wealth and power.
It is the note from the convent that gives me the courage to lift my chin and smile sweetly at him. “I can think of nothing that would bring me greater pleasure, my lord, than to be of service to you.”
“I have yet to discover who betrayed our plans to the duchess and gave her warning. I wish to watch the Nantes barons more closely. Perhaps one of them pretends loyalty to me and then reports all my plans to her. With this suspicion in mind, you will become intimately acquainted with Baron Mathurin.”
I keep my face perfectly still. This is a new low, even for him—whoring his own daughter out for political gain. “The fat one with the double chins? I am not certain that we must become intimate in order for me to coax his secrets from him,” I say lightly.
D’Albret leans forward, his black beard bristling. “You are refusing?”
“Of course not.” My heart beats faster now, for I am well aware of what happens to those who refuse him.
D’Albret cocks his head to the side. “Do not tell me you have maidenly qualms, for we all know what a lie that is.”
His words are like a slap to my face and send me reeling down a long, painful corridor of memories. Memories so terrifying that my vision darkens before my mind scrambles away from them. “I am merely pointing out that there are many methods available to extract the information you wish to have.”
Satisfied with my answer, he leans back in his chair. “You will sit next to him at dinner.”
Before he can give me further instructions, his steward arrives, escorting a road-weary and travel-stained courier. D’Albret waves his hand at the captain and me. “Leave us,” he orders, and Captain de Lur escorts me from the room.
Despair and frustration threaten to rise up inside me, but I tamp them down. Even though d’Albret is all but announcing to his men and vassals that I am so sullied that I do not warrant his protection, I need not panic just yet. I place my hand over my wrist sheath, drawing comfort from what hides there, and hurry to my rooms.
I arrive at my chamber, where Tephanie and Jamette fuss and cluck and are horribly relieved to see me. Irrationally, I blame them for what has befallen me this afternoon. “Draw a bath, at once,” I order curtly.
As they begin that task, I slip into the garderobe and remove the note from its hiding place. My hand trembles as I unroll the message, careful to hold it over the privy hole so that no traces of black wax can be found and used as evidence against me. I hope that these are the instructions I have longed for. Of course the note is in cipher. Holding back my impatience, I quickly count out the necessary sequence, but I have no ink or parchment, so it takes me far too long to decipher the message.
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