Author: Robin LaFevers

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.

“My lady? Your bath is ready. Are you ill?”

“I am fine,” I snap at Tephanie’s worried question. “Except I cannot find privacy.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” she says meekly, and I turn back to the note.

Dearest daughter,

We believe that Lord d’Albret has taken Baron de Waroch prisoner. The duchess has great need of the Beast of Waroch if she is to have any hope of raising an army against d’Albret or the French. We thereby order you to determine if he is indeed alive and, if so, to find a way to secure his release and see that he is brought to Rennes immediately.

Abbess Etienne de Froissard

Disbelief roils inside me, and my entire body turns hot, then cold, then hot again. I turn the note over, hoping I have missed something, then rework the code one more time. The message is the same. And it is not an order to kill d’Albret.

Anger rises up, so great it sears the breath from my lungs. She promised that I would be an instrument of divine vengeance—that d’Albret’s retribution would be delivered at the hand of his own daughter.

That very promise kept me from laughing in the abbess’s face when she told me of her intentions to send me back to his household. That promise had me redoubling my efforts to learn as many death skills as I could in my last weeks of training before I left the convent.

But more than that, her promise had given meaning to all that I have suffered and endured. Without that divine purpose to shape my life, I am nothing but a hapless victim. The anger inside surges through me once more, so dark and overwhelming I fear I will suffocate under its weight.

I will quit the convent. She cannot force me to stay here. Tucked far away on her little island, she will not even know I have left.

But d’Albret will.

And no place is safe from him, for his arm is long and he could snatch me up from anywhere in Brittany or France. No place is safe, except perhaps behind the walls of Rennes, and not even there if d’Albret decides to move on the city.

And so I must sit like a brainless coney. My future stretches out before me, grim and endless. I have been fooled by the convent and am now to be whored out by d’Albret as he weaves his malevolent snares for his enemies.

No. I clench my fists, crumpling the note and then casting it into the privy. No.

When I emerge from the garderobe, I ignore my attendants’ worried glances and yank off my clothes before they can assist me. I spend the next hour scrubbing my father’s and the abbess’s filthy schemes from my skin.

I do not know how I will make it through dinner. I cannot help but wonder how many know of the role d’Albret has given me. Nor can I help but wonder whom he will assign me to next. That fool Marshal Rieux? The quiet and serious Rogier Blaine?

As soon as I step into the dining hall, d’Albret’s gaze is upon me—as cold and dead as the meat on his plate. I keep my head held high and chatter inanely with Tephanie as I approach the dais, then curtsy. My smile is as brittle as glass—and as fragile. But lost in his own dark mood, he waves me toward Baron Mathurin.

As I make my way to the table, I wonder: How does one kill a monster such as d’Albret, someone with nearly inhuman strength and cunning? Can it even be done if the god of Death Himself does not will it?

How could I get near him? Get him to lower his guard? Especially when I cannot—will not—use seduction, one of my most effective weapons.

As I take my seat beside the baron, his eyes light up. “Fortune smiles upon me, demoiselle. To what do I owe the honor of your fair company?”

I want to shake him and warn him that it is not an honor but a deathwatch. Instead, I smile coyly at him. “It is I who am fortunate, my lord,” I tell him, then lift my wine goblet and drain half of it. Hopefully his attention will remain so focused on my breasts that he will not notice I must drink myself under the table to endure his company.

“Have you recovered from today’s hunt?” he asks.

The question nearly causes me to sputter. “Recovered, my lord?” It takes all my willpower to keep the scorn from my voice. “A hunt is not so very taxing as all that.”

He shrugs. “It was for Barons Vienne and Julliers. They have excused themselves from dinner tonight and taken to their beds.”

“Well, I am not as soft as they.”

“Nor I,” he says. “Indeed, the afternoon has got my blood stirred,” he adds, and there is no mistaking his meaning. Well and good—I will not even have to try very hard to snare this dumb goose.

A trill of laughter pulls my attention to the other side of the table, where Jamette hangs on Julian like a flea on a hound. Feeling my gaze on him, Julian looks up, and our eyes meet. He gives me a mocking smile and lifts his goblet to me. Does he know? I wonder. Does he know what our father has asked me to do? He must suspect something, for he knows I have no love for puffed-up buffoons or jackanapes such as Mathurin.

Jamette notices he is no longer paying attention to her and follows his gaze. Her eyes narrow and it is then that I see she is wearing a new brooch, a gold sunburst with a ruby in its center, and I wonder which secret of mine she has shared to earn it.

Chapter Seven

I HAVE DECIDED I WILL keep my rendezvous with Mathurin. I will even play the part I have been given—up to a point. Then, when I’ve learned all that I can, I will put a stop to it. If he protests overmuch or thinks to force me to continue, so much the better, for then I can kill him in self-defense. I am in desperate need of killing something.

When I reach the appointed chamber, I stop long enough to tug the bodice of my gown lower and loosen my hair. The overly eager Baron Mathurin is already inside, his pulse beating so heavily with lust I can scarce hear myself think. “Did anyone see you?” he asks when I step inside the room.

“No,” I assure him, then move closer, shaking my loose hair over my shoulder. He reaches out to capture one of the curls. “Like ebony-colored silk,” he murmurs, rubbing it between his fingers.

His desire is a heady perfume, for I know precisely what to do with desire. I run a finger lightly along the front of his doublet, and his mouth parts, his breath hitching in his throat. Then I wrap my arms around him and begin playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I bet you say that to all your conquests.”

He blinks in surprise, as if no one has ever accused him of having a string of conquests before. I lean up and begin nuzzling his great white jowl. “Do you know what put my lord father in such a foul mood tonight?” I ask. “He was in high spirits when I saw him this afternoon.”

And even though the baron and I are alone, his eyes dart around the room before he answers. He is not quite as dumb as he appears. “He received word that the duchess was crowned today in Rennes.”

Although this is good news for the duchess, I fear the crown will not save her from d’Albret’s aggression. The only thing that will do that is a strong husband with an army of thousands to defend his claim. I wonder if the courier who brought this report yet lives, for my lord father does not believe in sparing the messenger. “Do you trust d’Albret to rule Brittany?” I ask, then shudder. “For he frightens me well enough with the power he has. I cannot imagine him in charge of the entire duchy.”

As I utter these words, I can feel Mathurin’s desire begin to shrivel, so I quickly change the subject to distract him. “We do not have much time before my attendants come looking for me.”

This spurs him to action, and he unlaces his doublet, then his fine linen shirt below. When I see a dark shadow covering his chest, my heart soars. He is marqued! That makes everything so much simpler. I smile then, the first true smile that has touched my lips all day, and step closer, backing him up to the wall so I will not have to take the full weight of his body when I kill him.

But before I can do more than remove the knife hidden in my sleeve, he gasps, a puzzled, almost hurt look crossing his face.