She glares at me, and I can feel her temper humming in her veins. Tephanie chooses that moment to come stumbling back into the room, slipping her belt into place and affixing to it the small knife I gave her.
“Enough of this,” I say. “I have in mind something more entertaining for us this morning.” D’Albret and most of the garrison plan to go to Ancenis today to take back Marshal Rieux’s holding from the French. Which means it is a perfect day for ferreting out secrets. “Where did you say the sounds of ghosts were coming from? I would like to hear them for myself.”
For while ghosts do not make noise, prisoners do.
It turns out that the ghosts are rumored to haunt the old tower, the very place from which I watched the battle. It is also the most logical place to keep a prisoner, since it is well away from the living quarters and the high-traffic areas of the castle.
Neither of my attendants wishes to come face to face with ghosts and they both decide to wait for me in the chapel right next to the tower and pray for the newly dead barons. That suits my purposes perfectly, as I would much rather do my snooping away from their prying eyes.
The old tower was built nearly two hundred years ago. The stones are roughened with age, and the tower roof is in need of repair. I try the heavy wooden door and find it locked.
My heart quickens in excitement, for it was not locked when I was last here.
There is no guard posted so I peer through one of the arrow slits cut into the thick walls. The tower is haunted; I can feel the ghosts’ chill presence seeping out from the window—but ghosts do not clank, or make any sound at all.
I glance over my shoulder at the courtyard. There are just enough servants and men-at-arms about that I do not dare pick the lock.
Ignoring the ghostly chill, I search for some sense of a heartbeat within, but try as hard as I might, my power to detect such things cannot penetrate twelve feet of thick stone. I climb the winding, external staircase to the catwalk, then stand on tiptoe to peer in through another arrow slit.
The small shaft of light barely touches the gloom. I do not see anyone. No guard, no prisoner, no signs of life.
But wait. Some faint hint of sound wafts up—as if from the bowels of the earth itself—followed by a groan. Or a whisper. Or mayhap it is the wind. But since it is all I have to go on, I call it moaning. And even though it is so very little, it heartens me. I will have to find a way to pick the lock or steal the key when my actions can be hidden by darkness. The task is still impossible—but if I must sit here and do nothing while waiting for orders that are not coming, I shall no doubt go mad. Again.
Besides, I would like to think I am capable of doing something other than killing and acting the whore.
When I return to the chapel to collect the others, I find Tephanie alone, kneeling before the nave. Under the crucifix at the front of the church are nine small niches, each holding an image of one of the nine old saints: Saint Mortain; Dea Matrona and her daughters, Amourna and Arduinna; Saint Mer; Saint Camulos; Saint Cissonius; and, one of my personal favorites, Saint Salonius, the patron saint of mistakes.
I briefly wonder if I should leave an offering for Mortain. Does He suspect that my belief is a shallow thing? A small, flimsy protection against the more terrifying idea that He does not exist at all? What would I ask of Him, anyway?
Deliverance. That is what I would pray for.
Dear Mortain, please deliver me from this dark nightmare from which I can find no escape.
And then I snort, startling poor Tephanie. I have uttered that very prayer for nearly six long months, and look what it has gotten me. No, the truth is, Mortain has forsaken me. Either that or He does not exist.
But if that is the case, then d’Albret is my father. It is more comforting to think that Mortain has forsaken me.
Chapter Nine
WITH ALL THE MEN OFF harrying the French at Ancenis, the ladies of d’Albret’s household take dinner in the winter parlor instead of the great hall. It is a smaller room, and more intimate. And considerably warmer.
Madame Dinan takes great pride in her role as chatelaine, standing at the head of the table and waiting for everyone to arrive. That I am nearly late earns me a scowl of disapproval, but I pay no attention to that. Instead, my gaze falls on the thick ring of keys she wears at her waist.
D’Albret’s keys.
I tear my eyes away before she can notice my interest and spend the rest of dinner gossiping with the other ladies. But throughout the entire meal, my thoughts keep returning to those keys and how very much easier it would be to conduct my search of the tower before d’Albret’s return.