I take all this in as I lean heavily on Venois and stumble us both toward a bench. Venois is stiff, and I can only hope anyone sober enough to notice will assume it is his military bearing rather than unease. A harsh shout goes up among the dicing men, and I softly jab him in the ribs. “Slouch a bit,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. “And shuffle your feet, then call loudly for wine.”
He does as I command, and an annoyed-looking serving maid nods in our direction. I gently steer Venois to a seat where I can better see the dicing men. I do not recognize any of the men at the tables, and while I do not know all of d’Albret’s men by sight, there is a certain sameness of manner that they possess—an ill-tempered, belligerent way of looking at the world—and none of those men have it.
The dicing men are my last hope to make something of the evening. I wait for the serving maid to set our wine down before us, then take a big gulp. It is watered and sour and it is all I can do not to spit it out. Instead, I force myself to swallow, then lean toward Venois. “Do you dice?”
The soldier shrugs, then downs half his wine. “Upon occasion. But mostly, I try not to.”
I wait half a beat, but he does not volunteer. Just as I open my mouth to tell him he must join the men in front of the fire, another shout goes up among them, this time accompanied by the ring of steel.
A quarrel has broken out, and my heart soars when I recognize Huon le Grande, who is nearly as large as d’Albret himself and possibly just as unpleasant. The man waving his sword at the other two, the one with the wispy beard and a large nose and only three fingers on his left hand, is Ypres. Next to him is Gilot, short and squat and mean as a wounded badger. I nearly laugh with pleasure that they are too stupid to avoid drawing attention to themselves.
I drape myself over Venois and pretend I am nuzzling his ear. “Three of the dicers are the men we seek.”
That seems to perk him up somewhat, and he plays his part with more gusto, if not more skill, as I point out which of the men are d’Albret’s.
But the night is nearly over, and the tavern keeper’s a large, hard-fisted man who kicks all of d’Albret’s men out before they can ruin his establishment. He kicks the rest of us out too, just for good measure. I am in infinite danger as I stumble out the tavern door practically on d’Albret’s men’s heels, but my disguise holds, and their gazes are bleary with drink. Venois keeps one firm hand on my elbow and the other on his own sword, giving the rowdy men no chance for an advantage. It is with a light heart that I describe them to Thabor and then watch as three of the captain’s men slink off into the darkness to keep watch over the saboteurs.
Chapter Thirty-Two
HAVING FOUND A WAY TO turn my d’Albret heritage to a good purpose, I am riding high on the thrill of the night’s success, for there is no one else in the entire city that could ferret out these men. Only me.
It is hard to trust that Captain Dunois’s and Commander Thabor’s men will watch these traitors closely now that they’ve been identified, but I cannot post myself in the garrison alongside them, so I have no choice.
I reach my chamber and am surprised but pleased to find Ismae waiting for me. I am less thrilled to see that the abbess is also waiting, her proud profile limned in light from the chamber’s hearth. As I come fully into the room, her head turns, like a hawk that has sighted prey. “Well?” she asks sharply.
I refuse to let her rob me of this night’s victory. “Good evening to you too, Reverend Mother.”
Her nostrils flare, but she ignores my gibe. “How did it go?”
“Very well. We found four of d’Albret’s men. Commander Thabor put a guard on each of them so that they will be closely followed and watched, their every movement reported, but none the wiser that we are on to them.”
The abbess nods her head but does not give me the word of praise that I crave, and it galls me mightily that I crave it. Instead, she says, “Best get some sleep so you will have your wits about you at tomorrow’s council meeting.”
Not trusting my voice, I dip my head and curtsy. Sensing the irony in my gesture, she sniffs then strides out of the room, closing the door behind her. When Ismae and I are alone, she turns to me with a look of mixed annoyance and amusement on her face. “Why must you taunt her so?”
“Me? It is she who taunts me. Not even a word of praise or thanks does she send my way.”
Ismae frowns and shakes her head. “It is true that she has always withheld any such praise or commendation of you. I wonder why.”