We stay with the charcoal-burners as long as possible, passing by the tannery conducting its foul-smelling business down by the river, then turning up the street that leads to the section of town where the smiths can be found. They consume enough coal in their furnaces to keep the charbonnerie in pottage for the entire winter. We bid the charbonnerie goodbye, and Beast promises to send word when he has spoken to the duchess and her advisors of his plan to use the charcoal-burners against the French.
As he and I begin making our way toward the nicer part of town, I unwind the distinctive charbonnerie coif from my head and comb my fingers through my hair, then take the shawl from my shoulders. I use a clean corner of it to wipe the charcoal dust from my face so I am no longer one of the despised charbonnerie but merely a comely—if grubby—serving maid.
By the time we reach the palace, dusk is falling, and the sentries are just lighting the torches. It is not like Guérande, where people came and went as they pleased. The guards at the door speak with everyone who wishes to enter. “That’s new,” Beast says.
“At least someone has an eye toward the duchess’s safety.” It is one more barrier between d’Albret’s spies and the duchess, and it will give them pause if they must stop and present themselves. “However, the guards will likely not grant us an audience with the duchess when we look like this, at least not without a full explanation of who we are, and I do not wish to announce your arrival to these men.”
Beast pauses in wiping the charcoal dust from his face. “You don’t trust them?”
“It is more accurate to say that I don’t trust anyone. I wonder if Ismae is still assigned to the duchess. Perhaps I can get a message to her.”
Beast glances at the sentries. “I am not sure they would grant you an audience with Ismae even if she is here.”
I grimace, for he is most likely correct.
Beast thinks a moment, then reaches into some hidden pouch tucked on his person and removes something. “Here.” He hands me a small brooch—the silver oak leaves of Saint Camulos. “Ismae should recognize this, and if she does not, Captain Dunois will. As will the guards. They will honor any who carries this symbol.”
Holding the brooch tightly in my hand, I dismount, leaving him and Yannic to stay with the horses. I approach the palace and wait for the guard to finish questioning a burgher who is there to meet with the chancellor and complain about the most recent round of taxes. After the burgher has been told the chancellor has much more important business at hand—such as keeping the city from being attacked by the French—he is sent on his way, and then I am facing the sentry. He scowls at my poor clothing and the grime I am covered in. Even so, I tilt my head and give him my most fetching smile. He blinks, and his scowl softens. “What do you want?” he asks. “If you’re looking for scullery work, you must go around to the kitchens.”
I glance at the handful of pages lingering just inside the door. “I wish to get a message to one of the duchess’s attendants.”
The second sentry saunters over. “What business could you have with one of the duchess’s ladies in waiting?” he asks, as if the mere idea is some great jest.
I decide that a little mystery will aid my cause. “Ismae Rienne is no mere lady in waiting,” I tell him. “Give her this and bid her come as quickly as she can.”
I do not know if it is the mention of Ismae or the sight of Beast’s silver oak leaves that catches the guard’s attention. Whichever it is, he takes the brooch, hands it to a page, and murmurs some instructions. When the boy scampers off, I saunter over to wait by the wall, trying to look important but harmless—a surprisingly difficult combination. After a few moments, the sentry decides I won’t dash in on my own, so relaxes his guard somewhat.
I rest my head against the stone and allow the sense of jubilation to flow through me. Beast is still alive and we are as safe here as anywhere in the entire kingdom. With the abbess tucked away at the convent on the other side of the country, she will not know that I have arrived in Rennes until she receives a message. She cannot send me on a new assignment. At least not for a while. That gives me some time to work out what I would like to do next. Suddenly, the world looms large, full of possibilities and freedom.
And no one—no one—here in Rennes knows my true identity, so my secrets will be safe.
At the faint murmur of approaching voices, I carefully tuck my moment of triumph away and inch toward the causeway.
“No, you cannot kill him. He is the duchess’s own cousin,” a man’s voice points out wryly.
“All the more reason not to trust him,” a woman says.
It is Ismae, and the joy and relief I feel at hearing her voice is nearly overwhelming.
“If something should happen to the duchess,” she continues, “he stands to inherit the kingdom. Besides, he has been a guest of the French regent for the last year. How do we know where his true allegiance lies?”
“He was a prisoner!” The man’s exasperation is nearly palpable.
When Ismae speaks again, she sounds aggrieved. “Why did you not stay with the council? The message was for me, not you.” Unable to stop myself, I smile. For it is such a very Ismae-like thing to say.