Dark Triumph by Robin Lafevers
Chapter One
NANTES, BRITTANY, 1489
I DID NOT ARRIVE AT the convent of Saint Mortain some green stripling. By the time I was sent there, my death count numbered three, and I had had two lovers besides. Even so, there were some things they were able to teach me: Sister Serafina, the art of poison; Sister Thomine, how to wield a blade; and Sister Arnette, where best to strike with it, laying out all the vulnerable points on a man’s body like an astronomer charting the stars.
If only they had taught me how to watch innocents die as well as they taught me how to kill, I would be far better prepared for this nightmare into which I’ve been thrust.
I pause at the foot of the winding steps to see if I am being watched. The scullery woman scrubbing the marble hall, the sleepy page dozing against the doorway—either one of them could be a spy. Even if neither has been assigned to watch me, someone is always willing to tattle in the hopes of earning a few crumbs of favor.
Caution prevails and I decide to use the south stairs, then double back through the lower hall to approach the north tower from that side. I am very careful to step precisely where the maid has just washed, and I hear her mutter a curse under her breath. Good. Now I can be certain she has seen me and will not forget if she is questioned.
In the lower hall, there are few servants about. Those who have not been driven out are busy with their duties or have gone to ground like wise, clever rats.
When at last I reach the north wing of the palace, it is empty. Quickening my pace, I hurry toward the north tower, but I am so busy looking behind me that I nearly stumble over a small figure sitting at the base of the stairs.
I bite back an oath of annoyance and glare down to see it is a child. A young girl. “What are you doing here?” I snap. My nerves are already tightly strung, and this new worry does them little good. “Where is your mother?”
The girl looks up at me with eyes like damp violets, and true fear clutches at my gut. Has no one thought to warn her how dangerous it is for a pretty child to wander these halls alone? I want to reach down and shake her—shake her mother—and shout at her that she is not safe, not on these steps, not in this castle. I force myself to take a deep breath instead.
“Mama is dead.” The child’s voice is high and quivery.
I glance to the stairs, where my first duty lies, but I cannot leave this child here. “What is your name?”
“Odette,” she says, uncertain whether to be frightened of me or not.
“Well, Odette, this is no place to play. Have you no one to look after you?”
“My sister. But when she is working, I am to hide like a little mouse.”
At least her sister is no fool. “But this is not a good place to hide, is it? Look how easily I found you!”
For the first time, the girl gives me a shy smile, and in that moment, she reminds me so much of my youngest sister, Louise, that I cannot breathe. Thinking quickly, I take her hand and lead her back to the main hallway.
Hurry, hurry, hurry nips at my heels like a braying hound.
“See that door?” She nods, watching me uncertainly. “Go through that door, then down the stairs. The chapel is there, and it is a most excellent hiding place.” And since d’Albret and his men never visit the chapel, she will be safe enough. “Who is your sister?”
“Tilde.”
“Very well. I will tell Tilde where you are so she may come and get you when her work is done.”
“Thank you,” Odette says, then skips off down the hall. I long to escort her there myself, but I already risk being too late for what I must do.
I turn back around and take the stairs two at a time. The thick wooden door on the landing has a new latch, stiff with disuse. I lift it slowly to be certain it will not creak out an alarm.
As I step into the cold winter sunshine, a bitter wind whips at my hair, tearing it from the net that holds it in place. All my caution has cost me precious time, and I pray that I have not been brought up here only to see those I love slaughtered.
I hurry to the crenellated wall and look down into the field below. A small party of mounted knights waits patiently while an even smaller party confers with that braying ass Marshal Rieux. I recognize the duchess immediately, her dainty figure poised on her gray palfrey. She looks impossibly small, far too small to carry the fate of our kingdom on her slender shoulders. That she has managed to hold off a French invasion for this long is impressive; that she has done so in spite of being betrayed by a full half of her councilors is close to a miracle.