“And you did not tell me.” He does not raise his voice, but suddenly the room feels much smaller, as if he has somehow grown to take up all the space.
“It was one of the many things I have been meaning to tell you—when next we had the time.” I lift my chin. “Besides, it was one soul among dozens. I had no way of knowing who it belonged to or how long ago he had seen such things. And we had more pressing things to deal with, such as our own dead and wounded.”
He stares at me a long, taut moment. “Is there anything else you’ve neglected to tell me?”
I cast my mind back, trying to remember.
“You must think about it?” His whisper feels like he is bellowing.
“I wish to give you an honest answer!”
He shoves his hands onto his head and walks three paces away. “So you think Pierre sent the assassin?” His voice is calmer now.
“Or the regent. By now she has as much reason to hate me as he does. And,” I point out, “she picked a most interesting day to suddenly be absent from the palace.”
I watch as the implications of that spread across Beast’s face. “I can’t believe . . .”
I take a step toward him. “You can’t believe what? That she is that ruthless? That she will kill to advance her hand? Tell me.” I tilt my head. “Have you heard anything about Crunard’s son yet?”
He winces as the point of my arrow finds its home. “No.” His voice contains the acknowledgment that I am right.
“But what if it hadn’t been your hawk to wander afield?” he asks. “It could have been anyone’s falcon who did that.”
I shrug. “Mayhap he would simply have stayed hidden until I showed myself. He likely had a number of plans on how to gain access to me. We saw only the one that worked.”
He sighs. “What of the body?”
When I explain, Beast’s mouth quirks up and his eyes shine with admiration. “I admire a lady who can think on her feet.”
I shake my head. “Be serious.”
“I am. What of the horse?”
“If there was one, I never saw it. He must have left it behind somewhere.”
Beast nods. “I will send Lazare to check.” He is quiet a moment. “My biggest worry is how long will it take whoever sent this man to realize he has failed?”
“My bigger worry is that if Pierre thinks I am out of the way, he will feel free to make another attempt on the girls.”
“Then he will be most surprised, won’t he, when he faces not just you, but the rest of us protecting them as well. When do you think the queen will be able to ask for the king’s protection on your behalf?”
“Not until she is assured of her own,” I tell him glumly.
?Chapter 68
Genevieve
e reach Ransle just as the heavy gray clouds above us open up and release the rain they have been threatening all day. We stop at the first inn we pass, a plaster and timber building with an arched gate between it and the road.
Grateful for shelter, I step across the threshold, the rain dripping off my cloak onto the wooden floorboards. Maraud is close on my heels. The low-beamed room is lit by the fire and filled with the smell of tallow candles mixed with old wine and cooking. There are trestle tables set up, but only a handful of travelers.
“You’ll be wanting a meal and a bed?” the innkeeper asks. “And stabling for your horses.” I can see him adding up the sum in his head.
“That’s right.”
“Can you pay?”
In answer, I pat the small purse at my belt.
With a shrewd eye, he judges it full enough to bear the costs and motions us to one of the three empty tables. He hollers over his shoulder to some unfortunate lad to come see to the horses.
We have barely shaken the rain from our cloaks and taken a seat before the innkeeper returns with a platter of food, a wine jug, and two cups. My mouth waters as Maraud reaches for the knife and divides the braised coney in half, placing one portion on my trencher and the other on his. Following his lead, I rip the loaf of coarse brown bread in two and hand one of the sections to him, then turn to our meal. The rabbit is a little tough, but the sauce is flavorful and the bread is warm.
The quiet talk of the inn’s other patrons is interrupted by a rap on the door. Maraud sets his food down and slides his hand under the table toward his sword. I shoot him a questioning look, but he simply shrugs. Whatever he knows about d’Albret must be truly vile to keep him on edge.
Blissfully unaware of Maraud’s concerns, the innkeep hoists himself to see to the door. Raised voices follow. My pulse quickens as I worry Maraud was right—d’Albret has followed us—but realize the voices are too good-natured for that. “Let us in, old man!”
The innkeep grumbles something about mercenaries always taking and never paying.
“Yes, we’ll pay! In advance.”
“Besides,” a deeper voice says, “if you do not let us in we will drown, and our deaths will stain your eternal soul and you shall have to do penance.”
“Lots and lots of penance,” the first voice agrees.
“Very well, but you’ll have to leave your swords here.” A round of protest goes up. “Those are the rules for mercenaries. I’ll not have you slashing my place to ribbons when you’re done with it. Now hand them over or drown, it’s no difference to me.”
More grumbling is followed by a clatter as swords are removed and handed to the innkeep. I reach for the jug and pour myself some wine. “Good thing you’re not a mercenary, else you’d have had to remove yours as well.” We are dressed as messengers, my hair braided and tucked under my hood to alter my appearance somewhat.
“Good thing,” Maraud agrees dryly. When he glances at the newcomers, a look of stunned recognition appears on his face and he shoots me a rueful expression.
A voice hails him. “Maraud? Is that truly you?”
“Jaspar?” Maraud’s smile is warm. “What are you doing in this part of France?”
While I am glad these aren’t d’Albret’s men, mercenary acquaintances of Maraud’s could pose nearly as great a threat to my plans.
“Me? Me? You are the one we thought dead for over a year now.”
The four men—no, three men and a woman, I realize—reach our table. “Truly.” The man’s voice is somber. “We thought you died at Saint-Aubin.” He has the dark skin of a Moor and is dressed in riding leathers, a leather jerkin with a surcoat of chain mail, and a pair of muddy riding gloves tucked into the belt at his waist.
“You should know it takes more than a blow to my thick skull to kill me. Come. Sit with us.” I kick him under the table, but it is too late.
The man, Jaspar, sits next to Maraud, his gaze flickering briefly to me. “It wasn’t the blow I was worried about, but the pike.”
Maraud grimaces. “That would have finished me off if I’d lain there and waited for it.”
My appetite shrivels as two of the men sit on either side of me. The woman takes the free spot next to Maraud. She bumps his shoulder with her own. “You are thin.”