“Bring Pierre to me!” d’Albret continues. “His charge from the west gate should have come sooner. His laziness may well have cost me my prize.” He thrusts his hands out, and his squire darts forward and removes his right gauntlet. Before the boy can take off the left, d’Albret turns to shout another order. The squire leaps back out of reach and waits warily, afraid to draw closer but even more afraid of not being there when needed. “I also want a detail of men to ride after the duchess and report on her movements and the forces protecting her. If a chance presents itself to snatch her, do it. Any man who brings her to me will find himself richly rewarded.”
As de Lur repeats these orders to his men, a second squire hovers nearby, ready to place a goblet of wine in d’Albret’s hand before he has to ask. Without looking, d’Albret reaches for it, then we all wait in pinprick anticipation while he slakes his thirst. Madame Dinan steps forward as if to calm him, then thinks better of it.
When the count has drained the goblet, he stares at it a long moment, then hurls it into the fireplace. The violent shatter of crystal echoes in the quiet hall. Slowly, he turns back to the room, wielding the silence with as much skill and cunning as he does his sword, letting it grow until it is stretched tighter than a drum skin. “How did the soldiers from Rennes manage to arrive just then, hmm?” His voice is deceptively soft and far more terrifying than his shouting. “How is that possible? Do we have a traitor in our midst?”
The room is silent, each of us knowing better than to risk answering that question. We know we have many traitors in our midst, but it is easy enough to betray a young girl. Whether any of them dared to betray d’Albret is another matter.
Marshal Rieux clenches his fists and takes a step toward d’Albret. Dinan reaches out to stop him, but he is too quick. Mon Dieu, he is either the bravest man I have ever met or the greatest fool.
“How can you have a traitor when no one knew of your plans?” Rieux asks.
D’Albret’s gaze flicks lazily at Rieux’s clenched fists. “It was a last-minute decision.”
“Even so, I should have been told. I gave my word that the duchess would be granted safe parley.” Merde. Does the idiot not feel the sands of his life slipping through the hourglass as he taunts d’Albret?
D’Albret turns his full attention to Rieux. Beside me, Julian tenses. “That is precisely why you were not told. You had given your word and would have clucked and scolded like an old woman.”
Rieux says nothing. Whether because he is stunned by d’Albret’s answer or because he is finally wise to his danger, I do not know.
“Besides”—d’Albret’s voice takes on a mocking note—“look at how well your arguments won her over. It would be a poor commander who had only one tactic for winning a war.” Then, faster than quicksilver, the look on d’Albret’s face shifts and is no longer merely disdainful, but terrible. “You did not learn of this plan and warn her, did you? To protect your honor?”
Rieux recoils. Whatever he sees in d’Albret’s eyes has finally given him pause. “No,” he says shortly.
D’Albret holds his gaze for a long moment before turning back to the room. “How did the garrison from Rennes come to ride to her rescue? Why now? Why today, at this hour?” The count’s eyes glitter dangerously. “The only explanation is that we have a traitor in our midst.”
At least the arrival of the Rennes troops has distracted him from the north tower. For the moment.
“The duchess and Dunois brought news of the French.” Rieux changes the subject abruptly.
D’Albret cocks his head, waiting.
“They say the French have crossed the border into Brittany and have taken three Breton towns, Ancenis among them.”
Ancenis is Marshal Rieux’s own holding. D’Albret purses his mouth, studying the marshal. “No doubt Dunois wished to divert your attention.” D’Albret calls out to Bertrand de Lur. “Send a scouting party to confirm this report.”
De Lur nods, but before he can give the order, d’Albret calls out additional instructions. “When that is done, question the men. See if any have departed for Rennes in the last week. If so, be sure to bring them to me for questioning when they return.”
The men-at-arms grow silent—a few grow pale—for the methods d’Albret uses for questioning are the well-known stuff of nightmares. De Lur nods curtly, then goes to carry out his lord’s orders. On his way out of the hall, he glances at me and winks. I pretend I do not see and instead focus on my brother Pierre as he strides past the departing captain. His helmet is under his arm, his chin is raised, and he has an ugly expression on his face. The white scar through his left eyebrow stands out like a brand. “What happened?” he calls as he strips out of his gloves. “How did she get away?”
D’Albret’s head snaps up. “You were late with your men.”
The accusation stops Pierre cold, and the rush of conflicting emotions that flutter across his face would be humorous if his situation were not so dire. “We were delayed by citizens who tried to jam the gates to prevent our joining you on the field.”
D’Albret studies him a long moment, trying to see if he is lying. “You should have killed them.”
“I did,” Pierre says, his full, ripe mouth sullen.