The chancellor pats my arm. “Relax, my dear,” he says. “Or else they will wonder why my new paramour is scowling so.” His wry smile causes me to blush. Prettily, I hope.
“Your pardon, milord.” It had seemed a most far-fetched notion when the abbess first explained it. Surely no one would believe that I was with Chancellor Crunard in that way. But the truth is, there are many such pairings throughout the hall, older lords and nobles sporting young maids on their arms just as they sport jaunty feathers in their caps or jeweled daggers at their hips.
Our host, Baron Lombart, approaches, and Crunard introduces us. Lombart is fat and old and reminds me of the boar who used to hide in the woods near my home. I murmur some polite nicety and wonder if my new garrote would be able to slice through the thickness of his neck.
I suspect Crunard has guessed the drift of my thoughts, for he nods in the direction of the crowd. "Entertain yourself for a bit, my dear. The baron and I have business to discuss.”
It is my cue, and joy at being released surges through me. I am only too happy to let the tides and currents of the mingling nobles carry me to the edge of the room so I can slip away to my assignment.
As I move toward the door, curious glances brush against my skin. I feel one particular gaze linger too long, so I stop and pretend to make conversation with two gentlemen nearby. One of them stops talking and turns his protruding eyes to me. I give him a withering glance and continue on my way.
When I reach the doorway, no one is watching, so I slip from the room. The hallway is dark compared to the brightness of the great hall, and cool. I am glad to be away from the smell of too many bodies and warring perfumes. I count off twenty paces and am not surprised to find a wide, sweeping stairway, just as Sister Vereda predicted.
When I reach the first door at the top of the stairs, I draw into myself, as I have been taught, letting everything around me grow still, and then I cast my senses into the room beyond. The Tears of Mortain have done their job well, for I am certain there is no spark of life burning behind that door.
The next chamber is as cold and empty as the first, but when I stand in front of the third, I feel the faint trickle of life, warm and pulsing.
Anticipation bubbles through me, and it is all I can do to keep from charging in, daggers drawn. Instead, I put a hand to my heart to calm it and quickly run through Sister Beatriz’s instructions. This will be the hard part, acting the coquette.
With one last deep breath, I force a smile of breathless anticipation onto my face and open the heavy wooden door. “JeanPaul?” I whisper into the room, then stumble slightly, as if I’ve had too much wine. “Is that you?”
Standing at the window, Martel whirls around to face me. He is just as Sister Vereda said he would be, not much taller than I, his hair the reddish brown of a fox. I stumble toward him, and barely have time to register his scowl of alarm before he steps away from the window and grabs my shoulders. "What are you doing here?” He gives me a rough shake and I let my body go slack, as if I can barely manage to stand on my own.
“I am looking for JeanPaul. And you, sir” — I tap him lightly on the chest — “are not him.” I squish my lips into a pout and pray I do not look like a hooked fish. I am close enough to see the ruby he wears in left ear.
Looking down at my bodice, the fool relaxes. Are men truly such idiots that they cannot resist two orbs of flesh? Martel glances at the door behind us and licks his lips. “Perhaps, after I conduct my business, I can come to demoiselle’s aid,” he suggests. His eyes stray again to my bodice, and the dagger at my ankle calls to my clenched hands. Not yet, I tell myself. Not yet.
“That is a very kind offer.” I let my eyes wander up and down his body, as if assessing his charms. In truth, I am searching for the marque. His forehead is clear, as are his lips. Uncertainty raises its head. I sigh as if smitten. “But JeanPaul,” I say, then sigh again. I tilt my head, considering. "Well, as you say, he is not here. Mayhap monsieur will do.” As if I am a mare in heat, I think in disgust, and any stallion will suffice.
Martel steps closer. I swallow the distaste that rises up in my throat and wind my arms around his neck. There! Just where his shirt meets his jaw line, a dark shadow marks his skin. He sees the spark of interest flare in my eyes, and his own heat with desire. I allow my body to press even closer against his. He licks his lips again. “As soon as I am done . . . Perhaps you can wait in the next chamber?”