There is no love lost between Pierre and me. When he was twelve years old, he wanted to prove that he was no mere boy but a man full grown, and did so by forcing my first kiss on me when I was but nine years of age.
I was so startled by the kiss, so taken aback and affronted at this violation of my person, that I retaliated in the only way I knew how: I kissed him back. I didn’t simply return the kiss while his lips were already planted on my own. Instead, I waited until he was busy polishing our lord father’s armor, sauntered up to him as I had seen Marie the upstairs maid do to one of the men-at-arms, grabbed his smooth cheeks in my hands, and smacked him soundly on his lips.
The scar that adorns his left eyebrow is from where I whacked him with our father’s scabbard when he tried to force a second kiss.
But while I rarely have occasion to feel grateful to Pierre, today I do. If Pierre is courting Vienne’s wife, any suspicion over her husband’s death will fall on their shoulders rather than mine.
I turn to Julian with a sly smile. “How long will it take Baron Vienne to realize that Pierre is cuckolding him?”
Julian smiles back. “Not long, for Pierre will not truly enjoy himself until he can rub the baron’s nose in it.”
Since we are speaking of the baron, I allow my gaze to drift over to him and Julliers. I can feel the rapid beating of their hearts—as if two horses are galloping far in the distance, just beyond true hearing. Beads of sweat have begun to form on Julliers’s brow, but Vienne shows no signs of distress. He is heavier than Julliers and so will no doubt need to absorb more poison before his symptoms begin in earnest.
Before either Julian or I can say anything further, the huntsman sounds his horn. It is time to hunt.
I remove my falcon’s hood, and she fluffs her wings in readiness, her sharp, keen eye scanning the field. I launch her from my arm, painfully jealous of her freedom as she rises high in the sky, wheeling around once, twice, watching for her prey.
But I have prey of my own. Both the barons have grown ashen, and Julliers’s left arm hangs useless at his side. If he is experiencing numbness in his limbs, it will not be long now.
Then the huntsman sounds his horn again, and the hounds are off the leash, the teaming swarm of them racing toward the underbrush to flush out the game. A frantic thudding of wings follows as the startled partridge take flight.
Like heavy stones thrown from a trebuchet, the falcons drop from the sky and plummet toward their prey. A series of soft thumps follow.
But one falcon—mine—is still moving; a lone rabbit has also been flushed from the brush. The poor creature’s death squeal is harsh in the quiet of the forest, and every nerve in my body flares, for the noise made by a dying rabbit is shockingly similar to that produced by a dying man. As the falcon returns, I thrust out my arm and hold my breath, waiting to see whose wrist she will return to. When she lands on mine, I decide to take it as a fortuitous omen.
I glance once more at the two barons and wonder yet again why Mortain has marqued them for death but not d’Albret. Their sins and betrayals are small when weighed against his.
It would have me questioning Mortain’s very existence if I did not so desperately need to believe in Him, for if He is not my father, then d’Albret is, and that I could not bear.
Flushed with the pleasure of our morning’s hunt, we head back to the castle. Julliers has given his hawk to his groom to carry, and Vienne slumps drunkenly in his saddle. While I am glad that the poison is working, I feel a tinge of regret at not being able to use my knives. They offer a much quicker and cleaner end, and I have no appetite for the lingering deaths of soft, pampered barons.
Everyone is happy with the morning, except Jamette, whose little goshawk caught nothing but a vole. “It is a good thing we do not have to eat only what we catch,” I tease her.
She glares at me, which makes me laugh out loud.
We are nearly to the city walls when I feel something watching me. It is not Julian, for Jamette is busy trying to draw him into conversation. Nor is it Pierre, who has taken full advantage of Vienne’s poor health and is practically making love to his wife in plain sight of us all. I glance over my shoulder, but there is no one there.
I turn back in my saddle. Are the French troops close enough that they could have scouts nearby? Or did some of the Rennes garrison stay behind to keep an eye on d’Albret’s movements?
Or perhaps it is no living thing I sense but the soul of one of those men who died so violently on the battlefield.
I glance over my shoulder once more. When I do, a crow flutters from a far tree to a closer one. His left wing is crooked, as if it had once been broken.
Merde.