Maraud’s no makes it clear the subject is closed.
Valine’s voice is easy to pick out among the others. “But why would—”
“I saw something. Right after the surrender. France had just captured the Duke of Orléans, and our side had agreed to terms. Two . . . noblemen offered their swords to General Cassel. He told them he had been ordered to keep d’Orléans alive, but had no such orders for them. He accused them of treason against the king and beheaded them where they knelt. I think it is he who was having me held.”
Vile oaths erupt all around. “Ride with us in the morning, and we’ll find out,” Jaspar proposes.
“I must finish this job first. But I want to know where Cassel is.”
“Flanders,” Jaspar says. “He has been overseeing the campaign in Flanders.”
Maraud swears. “That will make him hard to get to.”
“Hard, but not impossible,” Valine points out. “Is that where you’re headed?”
“After I finish up with the assassin.”
“What do you want us to do?” Jaspar’s offer drives home the full extent of their loyalty to Maraud.
“I want Andry and Tassin to find out why d’Albret is raising troops. I need to know what he is planning.”
“Why?” Tassin’s deep voice is calculating.
“He was most insistent that I join him. To the point of detaining me. Said the campaign would be of deep personal interest to me. I want to know what that means.”
Andry snorts. “Does he know you’re the most idealistic mercenary ever to ride with a company? Every campaign becomes of deep personal interest to you.”
There is a soft thud followed by an oof. Maraud’s elbow connecting with Andry’s ribs is my guess.
“Very well. What of Jaspar and me?” Valine asks.
“I want you to return to Brittany as planned. Find out who is putting out a call for troops. Join them if you need to, but find out why. And I would like to know who the English are searching for.”
“Is there anything else, my lordship?”
“Here.” Another oof. “You can polish my boots while you’re at it.”
Valine interrupts their snickering. “Why not go yourself?”
“As I said, I am escorting the assassin north. Once I’ve done that, I’ll join you.”
“Is she truly an assassin?” Andry asks.
“Yes.”
“Can’t be much of one,” he snorts. “We snuck by her, and she hasn’t so much as stirred.”
I step into the hallway, a dagger loose and easy in each hand. “On the contrary.”
Five heads snap up to gape at me. Well, Maraud is not surprised. They sit at the end of the hall, much as they might around a campfire. A leather flagon of wine dangles forgotten in Andry’s hand. “I heard you all lumber by me like a flock of drunken geese and have been standing here the entire time.” I tilt my head and study Andry pointedly. “I have to wonder just how good you are at soldiering if you can be so unaware of your surroundings as to miss me.”
There is a flash of white as Valine smiles broadly, then digs her elbow into Andry’s ribs. Her eyes meet mine from across the hallway, and she takes the wine from Jaspar and raises it in salute. “Care to join us?”
For a moment, the desire to sit with them is so strong it is akin to hunger. I want to hear their story. How did they come to be so close? How did Valine end up a mercenary? If she can do such a thing, who is to say that I cannot?
I adjust the grip on my knives. Hunger or not, that is not where my destiny lies. The convent needs me. “What I would like is to catch a few hours of sleep before dawn.”
I have only just gotten comfortable in my bed when I hear the rest of them troop back into the room. I do not fall asleep until their breathing and snoring assures me that they have.
* * *
I am the first one up in the morning and none too quiet about it, eager to be on my way. As we all trudge toward the stables, I take Maraud’s arm and pull him behind the corner of the inn where we will not be seen by the others. “Here.” I hold up the antidote.
He nods curtly, then opens his mouth. I let three drops fall on his tongue before tucking the vial back in my pouch. Maraud studies me with such intensity that it is all I can do not to squirm. “What?” I finally ask.
“We could help you. My friends and I. We could help you with your mission to save those people you spoke of.”
I busy myself with securing my pouch to my belt. “I told you, it is not that kind of job. Besides, I am certain it doesn’t pay well enough for Andry’s liking.”
* * *
Since we are going in the same direction, we ride for a short way together. Maraud looks over his shoulder far less frequently. Whether because he is no longer believes d’Albret is following us or because he has four trained soldiers at his side, I do not know.
When we finally reach the crossroads, it is time to part ways. With few words, Andry and Tassin turn their horses to the southeast. Valine and Jaspar take the west fork.
“Join us when you can,” Jaspar calls out.
“When I am ready,” Maraud calls back. “I will take the road west from Sainte-Maure.” I do not know if he truly feels as confident as he sounds or if it is a pretense for his friends.
Jaspar swivels around in his saddle. “Where shall we meet?”
“At the sign of the bone and cross. I will send word when I am there.”
Jaspar raises his hand in the air, turns back around in his saddle, and gallops down the road to catch up to Valine.
As they depart, I remind myself that my plan for Maraud is a good one. A necessary one.
If that is true, a little voice whispers in my ear, tell him so he can join you freely.
But I do not. Not now. Not when he is still smiling from the time with his friends who once thought him dead.
?Chapter 70
e spend the next two days slogging our way through a sea of muddy road, occasionally broken up by a dark, smoky inn, a tepid meal, and a dirty straw mattress. Now that it is only two of us again, Maraud has resumed his habit of constantly looking over his shoulder.
By noon of the third day, my nerves are pulled tight and my patience frayed. When we draw near a bridge, Maraud reins Mogge in and calls out, “Hold up.”
“No one is following us,” I snap. “Stop wasting time traveling in twists and turns.”
“We need to get off the road,” he says tersely.
I open my mouth to argue, but he is already using Mogge to herd me off to the side. “Why?”
“Mounted horsemen. Lots of them.” He points behind us, and I squint down the line of his arm. Approaching the bridge from the east are well over a hundred men on horseback. “Can you make out their standard?”
“They’re not carrying one. They’re mercenaries.”
“How can you tell?”
“The lack of standard for one, and no colors. The armor is plain, and they do not ride in formations so much as a mob. See? There are pikesmen amongst the mounted soldiers, archers among the lances. A battalion marching under a house banner would be more orderly. Remember how d’Albret’s men rode in formation? These men are not doing that.”