D’Albret unlaces his breeches and steps out of them and into the tub. I stretch my neck to try to get a glimpse of his back, but I cannot see it from this angle.
As Tilde starts to move away, he reaches out and grabs her hand. She grows still, afraid to move. Slowly, with his eyes on her face, he pulls her hand down into the tub, into the water, his lips growing slack with anticipated pleasure.
Please, Mortain, no! I cannot watch this, else I will have to kill him, marque or no.
Like an unsettled flock of pigeons, every one of the nuns’ warnings rushes through my head: killing without a marque is killing outside Mortain’s grace and I will imperil my immortal soul. It will be sundered from me forever and forced to wander lost for all eternity.
But I cannot stand here and watch him rape her. Still uncertain of what I intend to do, I begin inching from my hiding place and reaching for my knives. A sharp knock at the door halts my step.
“Who is it?” d’Albret growls.
“Madame Dinan, my lord.”
D’Albret drops Tilde’s hand—is that her sigh of relief or my own?—then nods his head toward the door. The maid rushes to open it and let Madame Dinan in.
Her glance flicks in annoyance toward the younger, prettier serving girl. “Leave,” she orders the girl. “I will attend the count.”
Tilde does not wait for d’Albret to agree but slips silently from the room, proving once again that she has her wits about her.
When the two are alone, d’Albret rises from the tub, and I have a clear view of his back. The water sluices over the coarse black hair like a stream running over rocks, but there is no marque. Not even a smudge or shadow I can pretend is one.
Disappointment strikes me like a fist, and I feel sick. Not merely a sourness in my stomach, but a sickness of the heart. True despair. If this man is not marqued, then how can Mortain exist?
On the heels of that thought comes a more welcome realization. If Mortain does not exist, then how can there be any danger in stepping outside His grace?
But am I certain that He does not exist? Certain enough to stake my eternal soul on it?
Before I can decide, the chamber door bursts open and d’Albret’s head snaps up. “Who’s there?”
Marshal Rieux’s voice holds a note of faint distaste. “I apologize for the inconvenience. But the scouts have returned from Ancenis.”
“And it could not wait until morning?” d’Albret asks.
I am certain d’Albret will strike Rieux down where he stands for his gross insolence in interrupting, but he does not. Either Rieux was born under a lucky star or d’Albret has some need for the man and does not wish to destroy him just yet.
“No, it could not. What Captain Dunois told us is true. The French have taken Ancenis. We must send a show of force immediately to help defend it.”
“Must we?” d’Albret asks, and there is another pause that sends a shard of ice deep into my gut.
“But of course!”
Through my sliver of curtain, I see a frown on Madame Dinan’s face as she smoothes her skirt over and over again, even though there is not a wrinkle in sight. D’Albret cocks his head. “Very well.” He allows Dinan to help him into his chamber robe, then turns to Rieux.
“Your sword.” D’Albret puts his hand out, and my heart starts to race. Now the fool has done it. He’s annoyed d’Albret once too often.
Marshal Rieux hesitates. D’Albret puts a finger to his lips, as if sharing a secret. I cannot bear to watch, for while I do not care for Rieux, the man has at least tried to cling to the standards of honor. I avert my eyes, shifting my gaze to the left, away from the gap in the curtains through which I’ve been watching them all.
I remember the blood . . .
I want to put my hands over my ears like a child, but I am unwilling to let go of my knives.
There is a ring of steel as Rieux draws his sword, followed by a soft meaty thud as d’Albret takes it in his hand. A moment of silence, then a faint whistling as the blade arcs through the air. It is followed by a ripping sound as the silk curtain to my right is sliced in two. Surprised silence fills the room as the bottom half slowly puddles to the floor.
I stay as still as possible, huddled far to the left and praying I cannot be seen behind the remaining piece of curtain. My heart threatens to gallop out of my chest. So close. So very, very close.
“What is wrong, my lord?”
“I thought I heard something. Besides, I detest those hangings. See that they are removed by the time I return. Now, come, let us hear what these scouts have to say.”
Then, so suddenly it nearly leaves me breathless, they all quit the room and I am left cowering behind the remaining drape staring at a tub full of cooling water. I close my eyes and shudder at how close I came to death.
At least it would have been quick.
I am still shaking as I make my way to the servants’ quarters and begin searching among all the sleeping bodies on the floor. The room smells of cold nervous sweat and stale breath from so many people crowded together, although their sheer numbers help keep them warm. I pick my way through them, looking for Tilde, but there are so many young women wrapped in blankets and headscarves—and anything else they can find to keep warm—that it is an impossible task. Odette, then. But there are only a handful of children in here, and all of them are young boys—the pages the palace uses for fetching and carrying and sending messages. Which means Odette is not here.
Perhaps she is still in the chapel. Please do not let me be too late, I pray as I slip silently from the servants’ quarters and hurry along the quiet stone passageways to look for them there.
The moment I step inside the chapel, I know I am not alone. Two pulses beat somewhere nearby. But that is not my only company. There is also an ice-cold pall that lies over the room. A restless fluttering reminiscent of moths moves silently across my skin. Ghosts. Drawn to the warmth of life like bees are drawn to nectar. Indeed, I do not even need to search for Odette and Tilde; the ghosts hover hungrily above their hiding place.
I hurry over and swat the ghosts away with my hand. Tilde is holding the sleeping Odette, and slowly, she looks up. Her face, pinched and white, goes slack with relief when she sees it is me. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she whispers.
That she did not believe I would do as I’d promised stings, and I scowl at her. “I said I would, didn’t I? I went to the servants’ quarters first. Here. I will hold the girl while you get dressed.”
Tilde frowns in puzzlement. “Why?”
I lay the bundle of men’s clothing—purloined from the slaughtered servants, although I do not share that with her—on the pew and take the sleeping Odette from her arms. “You would not survive the night,” I tell her, careful to keep my voice matter-of-fact. “Not now that you have heard d’Albret’s plans. I must get you both out immediately.”
Her face softens and her mouth wobbles and I fear she will break down in tears. “Hurry!” I hiss. “And you may well curse me before the night is through.”
She slips out of her gown and pulls on the clothing I have brought. When she is done, we wake the sleeping Odette and coax her into the unfamiliar garments. They are far too big, and when I pull my knife to trim the breeches, both she and Tilde shrink back in fear.