Outside, the day has grown blustery, the wind proving that February is indeed the whirling month. Just like the leaves and twigs that dance in eddies across the courtyard, hope dances deep inside me. Perhaps d’Albret is marqued in such a way that I cannot see it but Sister Vereda with her seeress skills can. The thought of finally being able to move against him fills me with a dark joy. If I am at last able to kill him, the duchess and kingdom will be safe from his grasping ambition and brutal ways. Perhaps I can even arrange for my sisters to come finish their schooling at the convent. Not to train them in the killing arts, but because most of what the nuns teach us is much like the education that any noblewoman receives. Then my sisters would be safe even from Pierre and Julian. Although I do not think Julian would ever hurt them. At least not intentionally.
The gardens are deserted, since no one else is fool enough to venture out to this raw, barren spot. I take a slow breath and revel in the solitude. I am forever attended by someone—my ladies in waiting, my brothers, the various hangers-on of my father’s court—and I crave solitude. That and freedom. I glance overhead and try to recapture that soaring feeling I had when my falcon launched from my wrist, but I cannot.
Instead, an irritable caw brings me back to earth as Monsieur Crow lands on a branch before me, then cocks his head, as if wondering why I have taken so long.
“You’re a fine one to talk,” I scold him, but he knows I do not mean it and hops close. As I move toward the branch, I see that the note is wrapped tightly around his ankle and covered with black wax so that someone would have to be very close in order to see he bore a message.
I slip my knife from its sheath, and the bird gives a caw of objection. “I have no other way to get it off, you silly creature.” A quick snip and a slice, then wax crumbles and I am able to unwind the note from his leg. As I shove it into the knife sheath at my wrist, the crow looks to me for a reward. “I have nothing for you today—I am sorry. Now go. Quickly! Before you get us both killed.” I flap my hands at him and he hops but one bush away. “Hsst!” I say, and with a caw of reproach, he launches into the sky and disappears over the castle wall.
“Talking to the crows, my lady?”
Bertrand de Lur’s deep voice nearly causes me to jump. Instead, I use the startled movement to swing gracefully around and face him.
“That will earn you a reputation of witchcraft,” he says.
I tilt my head and smile mockingly at him. “Do they not say that already?”
He inclines his head, conceding the point. “Even so, it is not safe for you to be out here alone, my lady.” While his voice is rich and cultivated, there is something about the way he says my lady that makes the words feel like a slur. Or perhaps it just seems that way because his lust is so thick it reaches out and enfolds me like a mantle. How long has he felt this way?
“Where are your attendants?” he asks, his voice hard.
Even though I do not care for Jamette, I cannot surrender her to the threat I see lurking in his eyes. “I ordered them from my side. I have a headache and wanted fresh air.”
He glances around at the secluded section of garden, his eyes missing nothing. “I would think my lady’s beauty would attract a nightingale or a linnet, not a bedraggled crow.” He steps closer then, and for the first time I grow wary. Does he think me such damaged goods that he can take liberties without fear of reprisal from my father?
“It is not safe to be alone out here, not with all the men-at-arms we have posted. Any one of them might come upon you and be moved to take advantage of your unattended solitude.” He takes another step toward me.
Because I want to back away from him, I force myself to move forward until there is but a handbreadth between us. I gaze steadily into eyes. “Do you really think any of the men would be so foolish as to risk my father’s wrath in such a way? Surely they would not wish to see their guts strung up from the castle walls?”
There is a long moment of silence, then finally he nods. “Your point is well taken, my lady. Come, I am to escort you to your lord father.”
A cold trickle of fear slides into my belly. “Did my lord father say what he wished of me?” I hate myself for asking, for it shows my weakness, but I cannot help it. It is never wise to wander into d’Albret’s lair unprepared.
“He did not share his purpose with me, no.”
But he knows. I can see that knowledge in his eyes, and he looks for all the world as if he is gloating. I remember the convent’s order concealed in my sheath and permit myself a small secret smile as he takes my arm and we begin walking back to the palace.
The trip to d’Albret’s chambers lasts forever and puts me in mind of how a man approaching the gallows must feel. How long was de Lur watching me before he made his presence known? Did it appear to him as if I was just shooing away a crow, or feeding it, mayhap? Or did he see me take the message from the creature’s leg?