I still cannot decide if her actions were in retaliation for the abandoned plan between the Dukes of Brittany and Orléans to set aside her sister, or the opening salvo of a larger, broadscale attack. And is the attack directed at the duchess, or at a potential alliance between her and the Duke of Orléans?
“What is gnawing at you this morning?” Aeva steers her horse alongside mine. While she appears casual enough, the depth of her scrutiny is unsettling.
I glance about to make certain no one else can hear, then quietly tell her of the regent’s visit to the duchess’s chambers. When I have finished, she gives a disgusted toss of her head. “Women like her are worse than the men they serve. They cling hardest to the very rules that cage them, ruthlessly ensuring that all other women are equally trapped.”
Her words ring true. D’Albret’s fifth wife was much the same way—more vigilant than d’Albret himself in restricting the women of his household. Especially his daughters.
“A pox on all of them,” I mutter.
A shout rings out from the front of the line. The regent is my first thought, even though I know it unlikely. I crane my neck, trying to peer through the rows of horsemen to see what is happening.
We are in a gently sloping valley where two riverlets run nearly side by side. Captain Dunois and the French guards in the vanguard have just reached the first bridge. The rest of our party is strung along the road like a trail of goslings: the mounted councilors, including the duchess, who rides pillion with Chancellor Montauban, followed by Beast and the queen’s guard, the litters, the priests on their mules, and the baggage train lagging behind.
A copse of trees perches atop the ridge like a dark green crown. The riverlets are swollen with the recent rains, and the sound of their gentle rushing fills the valley, accompanied by the creak of leather harness, the jingle of tack, and the low hum of voices. Nothing appears out of place. Just as I wonder if one of the soldiers fell from the bridge into the river, there is a second shout. Captain Dunois pulls hard on his reins and stands up in his stirrups.
My heart kicks into a gallop as I turn to scan the fields on either side of us, but there is no sign of attack. The trees on top of the slope are far enough away that no arrow could reach us.
Even so, my muscles tense, readying for something I cannot yet see. I press my knees to my horse, urging him forward. Beast, too, has broken from the line and is riding around the others toward the first bridge.
I kick my horse into a canter, trying to catch up to Beast when a third, louder, shout goes up. Captain Dunois places his right hand on his chest and plummets from his horse.
There is a brief moment of stillness, as if we are a tableau frozen by an unexpected winter frost.
Beast wheels his horse around. “To the duchess!” he shouts.
Riding hard for the bridge, I glance over my shoulder to see the queen’s guard draw into a tight, fortifying circle around Chancellor Montauban and the duchess. The Prince of Orange and Jean de Rieux draw their swords as well.
My eyes scan the nearby trees again, but no arrows rain down on us, no horses or foot soldiers emerge.
Then I am at the bridge. I leap off my horse, toss my reins to the nearest knight, and break into a run. My feet thud on the wooden planks, nearly drowning out the sound of Dunois’s heartbeat.
It is slow, fluttering, erratic.
No. No, no, no.
When I finally reach him, I drop to my knees. His face is pallid, his skin leaden, but his heart—his brave, determined heart—still beats.
I reach up and loosen the gorget at his neck in order to ease his breathing. His eyes are open, but unfocused, staring at the sky above him. “Captain?” My hands gently search for a dagger or dart, anything that might have struck him, but they find nothing.
“My lord?”
He blinks and turns his head toward me even as his eyes remain focused on the sky above him. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“What is wrong?” Panic seeps out around my words.
He grunts, and I cannot tell if it is a word or simply an expression of pain. His mouth twists, trying to open, and I lean closer.
“Look.” The word tumbles out with a labored breath.
He tries again. “Look . . . to . . . cas . . . tle.”
I tighten my hand on his shoulder. “We will get you to the castle right away. Their doctors will be able to take care of you.” I motion for the two nearest soldiers to come help. With an uncertain glance at each other, they begin to dismount.
Captain Dunois grunts again, and I turn back to him. His eyes are closed, and he shakes his head in frustration. “Cas . . . sle.” The words are little more than a sigh. My own frustration mounting, I place my ear closer to his lips. “What?”
But this time all that escapes is an exhalation of breath. Close on its heels comes a dizzying rush, a jumble of sensations and images—his soul.
A silent wail of despair rises up inside me, but before I can give voice to it, his soul latches on to mine, and I gasp. I am filled with pain. So much pain. His soul is confused by it, his thoughts fractured and incoherent. Like a ribbon being pulled through my fingers, his soul leaves his mortal body.
Dunois’s pain is replaced by my own, as if a sharp blade has just scraped out the insides of my heart.
That is when the attack comes.
?Chapter 30
am still bowed over Captain Dunois when shouts erupt all around us and bodies begin clambering up the wooden rail.
The bridge, I realize stupidly, rising to my feet. They were hiding under the bridge.
They picked their moment well—our train is strung out between the two bridges, and we are distracted by the death of one of our own. As scores of men continue to swarm over the side, the French soldiers assigned by the regent draw their weapons, moving to protect me.
But I do not need their protection. I reach for Ismae’s crossbow, slap a bolt into place, and face our enemies.
The crossbow takes out three in a row, surprising the French soldiers as much as the ambushers. “Look to yourself!” I shout, racing to the end of the bridge where my horse waits. Two more attackers come over the side of the bridge and block my path.
With no time to reload, I snatch my knives from my wrists and charge. The first man is still blinking in surprise when I slit his throat. As I spin toward the second man, he is ready for me. Or thinks he is. When he brings his sword up to strike, I duck in low and slam my foot into his knee, snapping it. His leg crumples under him, and I shove my knife deep into his gut, thrusting upward to hasten his death before yanking my blade back out.
I take a step toward the next attacker, stumbling when I must brace myself against the rush of dying souls. Like bright candle flames, they flare briefly, then dim. Some of them head for me, but I have many years hard practice and erect my barriers.
The barriers hold. I can feel the souls, but with my mind shut tight and my heart closed, it is merely like riding through a flock of birds too dumb to fly out of the way.