I think back to the smith and his reluctance to wait on us. Of the nervous glances of the pie seller and how the shopkeepers looked at us with suspicion. I shrug. “They were accommodating enough.”
Jamette turns and looks at me in surprise. It is then that I see her new bauble—a round, pink pearl that dangles in the middle of her forehead from a delicate gold chain. “Did not the smith almost refuse to wait on you?” she says.
I cannot decide which I wish to rip out first—her loose tongue or her too observant eyes. I do not think she was close enough to the smith and me to make out the actual words between us. “I fear you are mistaken. He was merely unsure of whether he could have the job done in the time I required.”
“Oh,” she says, looking faintly sheepish.
I turn back to my father, wanting to make certain the smith will not fall into his disfavor. “He was courteous, if a bit provincial. And his wife was most obsequious.”
“That is too bad,” my father says.
Marshal Rieux looks at him in surprise. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
My father grins, truly one of his most horrifying expressions. “I was looking forward to making an example of their lack of respect.”
A chill scuttles down my spine and I try to think of something to divert his attention from the smith. I receive help from an unexpected quarter.
Pierre, who has had too much wine, raises his glass. “Instead, we should make an example of the duchess and ride on Rennes!” Baron Vienne’s wife sits at his side, ignored and forgotten. She looks as if she has aged ten years over the past few days, whether because of her husband’s recent death or Pierre’s attentions, I cannot be sure.
Julian looks at him askance. “Except that they are too well supplied and can easily withstand a siege. We will be left standing on the battlefield looking like fools.”
“Not with our might,” Pierre slurs.
Julian pointedly waves away the page who is waiting to refill Pierre’s goblet. “Might counts for nothing if we cannot get inside the city walls.”
D’Albret’s expression turns sly and he begins playing with the stem of his goblet. “Ah, but what if we had help from inside,” he says, and my heart drops. Has the duchess not purged her council of all the traitors? There is no one left, by my reckoning. All of the traitors sit here at this table.
“Help?” Rieux says, clearly puzzled.
D’Albret draws out the moment, draining his wineglass and waiting for the steward to refill it before continuing. “I have sent men to infiltrate the ranks of the mercenaries Captain Dunois has hired to augment the duchess’s troops. They have been ordered to ensure they are assigned to the vulnerable parts of the city—the gates, the bridges, the sewers; anyplace that could provide an entrance point.
“Once they are in position, we will have several chinks in her armor to use at our convenience. When the time is right, they will be able to open the city gate for us. Once our forces are inside, it will be easy enough to overpower her guardsmen and man the ramparts with our own. The duchess’s sanctuary will quickly become her prison.” He smiles, his teeth brilliantly white against the blackness of his beard.
It is clear that d’Albret’s unbridled ambition will yield to nothing but death. The thought of his forces descending on Rennes and invading the city causes my stomach to shrivel into a sour knot.
Pierre raises his goblet in salute. “Is now the time to send her our message, my lord?”
D’Albret stills, and for one long moment, I fear he will hurl his goblet at Pierre. Instead, he smiles. “Tomorrow, whelp. We will send her our message tomorrow.”
It appears the injured knight has just run out of time.
Chapter Fourteen
I LEAVE JULIAN SPRAWLED in a chair by the fire. His head is thrown back, his mouth agape. He almost looks dead. Indeed, I thought—briefly—about killing him, but in the end, I could not. Not even after all he has done. We have survived too much together, been each other’s allies when no one else would stand by us.
Besides, he is one of the few things that has ever loved me and survived.
He will feel groggy and ill from the overdose of sleeping draft I gave him, but it is no more than he deserves for coming to my chamber uninvited. Just the thought that I will never again have to endure his nightly scratching at my door is enough to lighten my step.
Once I have armed myself with every weapon I own—the knives, the daggers, and the garrotes—I slip from my room. Indeed, I feel like a traveling tinker with as many potions, weapons, and tools as I carry on me. I am lucky I do not clink my way down the stairs.