“I have come to tell you goodbye.”
The stillness that follows is so thick I could slice it with my knife. “Goodbye?”
“Yes. I am leaving.” Even though he does not deserve it, I speak the words softly to gentle the blow.
That announcement is met with another silence, this one filled less with bleakness and more with interest. There is a loud rustling as he sits up. “If you are leaving, take me with you.” The fierce longing in his voice causes it to tremble slightly.
“Unfortunately, I cannot take you with me as I can no longer trust you. But I did bring you one last meal before I leave.” Teasing him was supposed to feel more satisfying than it does.
“Food!” He spits out the word. “What do I want with food if I am to remain shut away in here?”
I take another bite of the pear, being sure to slurp the juices loudly. “You once cared very much for food.”
“That was when I had hope and a plan. Both of which you have taken from me.”
“Taken from you?” My voice grows hard. “And what of the trust and sense of safety that I have had taken from me?”
“I will swear on anything you ask.”
“There is no oath you can swear that I will believe. If I was wrong to trust you in the enclosed space of a dungeon, how much more foolish would I be to trust you on the open road?”
“If I was on the open road, there would be no need for trust. I would have what I wanted!”
“That is a good point. And if I trusted you, I would believe it. But this is not just about me. I have important things I must do. People who are counting on me and whom I will not jeopardize with misplaced trust.”
He takes a step closer to the middle of the room. I casually pull my feet up out of the hole and fold them under me.
“As do I,” he says.
“You?” I frown down into the pit. “You have languished down there for nearly a year. What important tasks could possibly await you?”
“I told you, I witnessed a crime on the battlefield. I am the only one who can see justice done for those who were wrongfully slain.”
At the urgency in his voice, I set down my pear and wipe my fingers on the sack. “I am sorry.” All the teasing is gone from my voice. “Your cause sounds noble, but my task involves saving those who are still alive. Your revenge will have to wait.”
“I could help you save them before I pursue my vengeance.”
Surely that smooth, reasonable voice is the same one the serpent in the garden used in the stories favored by the Church.
My own voice takes on a mocking tone. He will never know it is directed at myself for wanting to believe him. “That is a gracious offer, but the sort of saving I will be doing does not require strength or mercenaries.”
“I will die if you leave. No one comes down here anymore.”
I shift on the hard stone. “You can’t know that. Opportunity presented itself once. Who is to say it will not again?”
He snorts. “The gods will not roll the dice in my favor twice. Better to have been left alone than to have fed me hope, only to snatch it away.”
His words have the force of a punch, for I suspect in my heart they are true. “I did not know when I began this that I would be leaving.”
Now it is his voice that takes on a mocking tone. “How did you see this playing out? Keeping me like a child keeps a pet? Or would you eventually have become skilled enough with your sword that you no longer needed me, and we would have said goodbye then?”
“I did not think that far ahead,” I admit. “I have only been putting one foot in front of the other, praying that a steppingstone would appear in time to carry me forward. And this newest steppingstone leads me away from this place.” I rise to my feet and pick up the sack of food, knotting it before holding it out over the oubliette. “Here.” I let go. “A parting gift.”
There is a dull thud as it lands in the straw. I grasp the grate and lower it back down over the hole, but slowly, so it does not clang loudly like a funeral bell. As I slide the bolt into place, he calls out, “Wait.”
I pause.
“If you are feeling charitable, consider leaving me the rope.”
Even though I had planned on leaving him the rope, I do not answer. Instead, I turn to leave, but a thought occurs to me, causing me to stop. “Who are you really?”
“Will it matter once I am dead?”
“If you have any family, surely it will bring them some peace of mind to know what became of you.”
He considers for a long, hard moment. “My name is Anton Crunard,” he says at last.
I can scarce believe the name I am hearing. “Crunard,” I repeat.
“Yes. The fourth son of the chancellor of Brittany.”
My mind reels at all the implications crowding into my head at once. “Why has he not paid your ransom?”
“I told you, we are not close. I was the prodigal son.”
He does not know, I realize. He does not know that his father is no longer chancellor. He does not know that his father betrayed Brittany.
And that he did so in an attempt to save Anton—Maraud.
I think of him, and his honor, honor that would not allow him to overpower me, no matter how many unwitting opportunities I gave him. It is said the apple does not fall far from the tree, but in this case, I think perhaps it did.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say at last. “And I will think about the rope.”
* * *
I take my time making my way back to the main floor of the chateau. My footsteps drag as my mind races. Maraud is the son of one of Brittany’s most noble families.
Or at least, what was once Brittany’s most noble of families. War and politics have taken their toll on the Crunard name, with three of the sons—Maraud’s brothers—killed in the conflict between France and Brittany. But it is the stain his father brought on the family honor that will leave the deepest scar. The man betrayed the duchess—and all of Brittany—right into the hands of the French regent. Or tried to. His plans were discovered in time.
That is why Maraud’s ransom wasn’t met. The regent held him hostage, with treason as his ransom price. And even though the chancellor paid the required price and betrayed his country, the gambit failed. And apparently Maraud was not freed.
But why keep him hidden now, if Brittany and France are truly allies? Should he not be returned to his family? Is there some risk to having him back among the living, telling of his treatment at the hands of the French crown? The way he has been treated goes against all the rules of engagement and chivalry. For the king, chivalry and honor are everything.
I think of the letter in the study. Or . . . My steps slow even further. Is the whole affair too dishonorable for the regent to admit to?
The faint simmering in my gut tells me that this changes things. It is as if Fate herself has rolled the dice for me and landed on a new number.
I can use Maraud’s identity to my advantage.
I can take him with me.