“Shhh,” I say quietly. I step closer to him, as if I am looking at something he is showing me. “That is not my true commission for you. I have a key that needs copying.” I slip the velvet pouch out of the larger purse at my belt and hand the small blocks of wax to him. Keeping one eye on me, he opens the pouch to see the impressions of the key. “My lady, I am no blacksmith—”
I smile and say sharply, “Do you not think I can read the sign above your shop? This key is a gift for someone. Someone special.” I smile coyly so that his mind goes precisely where I want it to. He frowns in disapproval and opens his mouth to refuse, but I pull a second, smaller pouch from my purse. “I will make the job—and your silence—worth your while.”
Just then, his wife comes back with a tray of finely worked gold belts, circlets, intricately carved cups, and paternosters. When she sees the bag, her face lights up. I hand her the pouch before the smith can refuse the job, knowing that once she closes her hand around those coins, she, like any good housewife, will not let them go.
“Oh, and one other thing,” I say, as if just remembering.
The smith looks at me, clearly vexed and wishing I would take myself far away from him and his shop. “I will be back in three hours for the . . . belt.”
“My lady!” he protests. “That is not nearly enough time.”
“Ah, but you will make the time, will you not?” Our gazes meet.
“But of course, my lady. I will make the time.”
We spend the rest of the day wandering around the shops of Nantes. Jamette buys a rose-colored ribbon and a gold-braided cord for her hair, a cord I cannot help but daydream of strangling her with. Tephanie looks at everything with hungry eyes, like a starved child, and I end up buying her a pretty comb for her hair. I assure myself it is only to make Jamette jealous.
Three hours later, the bells of Nantes cathedral call everyone to afternoon prayers. Even Jamette has worn out her penchant for shopping, and the guards’ eyes are rolling back in their heads from boredom, so we return to the silversmith’s.
He and his wife are waiting for us, and the look she gives me now is full of censure and reserve. The smith says nothing, no doubt counting the minutes until he can be rid of me. Once again, I am careful to stand with my body blocking the view of his workbench. “Is my belt ready?” I ask in a bright voice.
“Just as you asked, my lady.” He gives me the small velvet pouch at the same time he gives me the belt. The pouch is still warm from the hot metal of the newly made key. As I take them from his hand, my fingers grasp his. I pause. “If you speak of this to anyone, my life—and yours—will not be worth the ashes in your hearth.”
His eyes meet mine and then turn away. “And well I know it,” he mutters. “For that is no bedroom key.” He starts to pull his hand back, but I grip it tighter.
I do not know why, but I am filled with an urgent need to have this simple, honest man know that I am capable of decency. “Not everyone in the palace supports the baron.” I let all my artifice fall away so he may see the truth behind my words.
He studies me carefully a moment, then nods once in understanding.
“Thank you.” I give him a genuine smile this time and squeeze his hand. He blinks. “I will not jeopardize you or your family again, I swear it.”
Relief washes over his face, and I slip the key into the purse at my waist and leave.
Chapter Eleven
D’ALBRET AND HIS MEN HAVE not yet returned from Ancenis when we retire for the evening. I wait for what feels like an eternity for Jamette and Tephanie to undress me and prepare me for bed. The fact that Jamette chatters like a nervous magpie does not help the time go by quicker. At long last, they finish their fussing and take their leave.
When I am finally alone, I go to my chest and look among my few poisons for one that is both swift and merciful, but I have none. Some are gentle but work slowly, and those that work quickly, cause too much pain and discomfort to be used for a merciful killing.
Instead, I remove my favorite knife and a sharpening stone, then go sit by the fire and begin sharpening the blade. I still do not know if the prisoner can sit a horse, or ride one, or if he is even conscious. If he is not, he will be of no use to the duchess. Not unless she can use his dead, martyred body to incite loyalists to take up arms.
He will not be marqued, but I no longer care about that.
It used to scare me, the idea of killing without a marque from Mortain to guide my hand, but now, stepping outside His grace holds no more fear for me. Especially since what little I know of that grace has been harsh. My biggest fear has always been that once I began killing at my own whim rather than Mortain’s, I would become no better than d’Albret. But over the past few days, I have begun to wonder if being the daughter of Death is any different than being the daughter of a cruel, sadistic murderer. There is little enough difference that I can see, so better to make my own choice in this, the one I think will do the most good.