Chapter Thirty-Four
AT HIS WORDS, everything inside me grows still. “You know why I am here?”
“Perhaps even better than you do.”
His words prick at something uncomfortable in me. “What do you mean?” That I must ask this question rankles me, but my need to know what hidden web is being woven is greater than my pride.
He shrugs, a surprisingly elegant gesture. “It means that I understand better than you why you have been sent. You think you are on Mortain’s business, but you are not. You are here on hers.”
I force out a laugh and hope it does not sound as false to his ears as it does to mine. “You are facing death, my lord. It is not surprising that you would say anything you can think of to stay my hand.”
He shifts then, rises to his feet. Good! If he comes closer to the light, mayhap I will see a cursed marque. I silently raise my bow.
He ignores the arrow pointed straight at his chest and stands just on the other side of the iron bars. “Did she tell you why I must die?”
“You betrayed the duchess, did everything in your power to hand our kingdom over to the French regent. I do not think there is much to explain.”
“Your fellow handmaiden chose not to kill me once. Perhaps she knew something you did not?”
My heart twists painfully. “Matelaine?”
He frowns slightly. “No, Ismae. When she first discovered I was the one behind the plots here at court, she chose not to exact justice. Have you asked yourself why?”
Even though there is hardly any room, I take a step closer. “No. I was too busy trying to puzzle out why you had killed the second handmaiden sent after you. Surely you recognize that now, in addition to your crimes against the kingdom, you have committed crimes against Mortain.”
His frowns deepens and he appears genuinely puzzled. “A second handmaiden?”
I laugh again. “Playing dumb will not help you, not when I stand here with an arrow pointed at your black heart.”
He spreads his hands wide, as if giving me a clear shot at his chest. “If you think I am eager to cling to this life when all I have ever cared for is gone—my family, my lands, my honor—then you are sadly mistaken.” Crunard grips the bars with his hands. “I welcome death,” he whispers.
“Then you shall have it,” I whisper back. But even though every fiber of my being wishes to see this man dead for what he did to Matelaine—and to the duchess—I find I cannot release the arrow.
He leans forward. “Do you see one of your precious marques on me?”
Shock travels along my bones that he would know of such things. “It is probably hidden by your clothing.” I motion with the bow. “Strip.” While I am eager to see if he bears a marque, I am equally eager to wipe the smug certainty from his face.
There is a whisper of movement to my left as I feel Balthazaar unfold himself from the shadows, and I wonder how long he has been there. He leans close enough to whisper in my ear. “Let me have him.”
Scowling, I turn my arrow on him. “He is mine.”
Balthazaar holds his hands up in a placating gesture and slips back into the shadows. I return my attention to Crunard and watch as he pulls off his doublet, then unlaces his linen shirt and pulls it over his head. His chest is still broad with muscle, even though the hair upon it has gone white. But there is no marque.
Before I can respond to that stark fact, the hellequin grabs my arm and pulls me aside, out of Crunard’s hearing. “Do you see a marque on him?”
“No,” I admit, making no effort to hide my disgust. Hopefully, his accursedly sharp hearing will not pick up on the despair I feel—that even with the Tears, I do not possess this most basic of skills.
“Have you seen all you need to see?” Crunard’s dry voice cuts through my thoughts. “For it is cold and damp and I would rather not catch a fever and die that way. Better for you to simply kill me with your arrow now. It would be a far more merciful death.”
“You assume that you deserve mercy,” I snap, “when I am sure of no such thing. And yes, you may put your clothes back on.”
While he dresses, I ponder my options.
I cannot say with utter certainty that Crunard is meant to die. If Mortain Himself or the duchess’s justice demands it, that would be one thing, but I do not trust the abbess’s word that he must die. Especially with the unsubtle insinuations Crunard is throwing around.
I huff out a sigh. “Very well.” At Balthazaar’s eager look, I give him a shove, releasing some of that frustration on him. “No, you will not hunt him,” I say. “But I will take him back to Rennes to face the duchess’s justice, and she can decide his fate. Unless Mortain marques him on the way. Then I will kill him.”
The hellequin studies me a moment and then gives a single nod. “So be it,” he says.
My mind spins furiously, devising a plan. It will be easy enough to get Crunard free of his prison. Harder to get him out of the city. I turn to Crunard, who is watching us both with hungry eyes. “As you heard, you will be coming with us. But if you make one noise when you should not, make any attempt to escape, I will cheerfully kill you, then drag your body back to the abbess and the duchess. Is that clear?”
He nods. “Most clear, demoiselle.”
In the end, I decide that moving quickly is better than sitting around devising the perfect plan. I slip back out to the antechamber and the two drugged guards, remove the key from the jailor’s belt, then return to Crunard’s cell. As I fit the key into the lock, I pause, for some reason reminded of the old tale of the girl whose curiosity drove her to open a box that let loose all sorts of evils upon the world. I too feel as if I am on the brink of answers, answers that have the power to move through my life like a storm surge. I cannot help but wonder what will be left when I am on the other side.
“Come along,” I tell him, slipping one of my knives into my hand where he can see it. “And quietly.”
He nods, then steps out of his prison slowly, as if unable to believe I will not slam the door in his face. I turn to Balthazaar. “Tie his hands behind his back.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Crunard reluctantly turns around. As the hellequin tends to that, I close the door, lock it, then toss the keys inside. At his raised eyebrow, I shrug. “It will give them something to puzzle over.” Then I grab Crunard’s arm and shove him in front of me. Balthazaar falls into step behind us like a sinister shadow.
Crunard spares one glance at the two guards slumped over the table, their dice on the floor. “Did you kill them?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie, hoping he will think me ruthless and therefore be less inclined to attempt escape. “Now, hush and act the contrite prisoner, or I will kill you as well.”
My plan, such as it is, is to pretend we have been charged with transferring the prisoner to Rennes, where he is to stand trial for his crimes. All the lessons on subterfuge and lying that have served me so well at the convent will serve me equally well here. Or so I hope.
As we reach the landing, I pause, listening for the sentries. Still only two, I think. Very well. I glance over at the hellequin. “You are my escort, provided to me by the duchess herself.”
He raises one darkly arched brow, then nods. I draw a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, then step outside.
At once, the two sentries spring to attention, raising their weapons in spite of their surprise. “Halt!” the taller one cries, his eyes widening when he recognizes Crunard.
I scowl at them, letting the men know just how much they annoy me. “Delay us at your own risk,” I warn.
They glance at each other.
“We are sent to bring the prisoner to Rennes to stand trial for his crimes. If you detain us, you are delaying the duchess’s own business.”
Finally, unable to help himself, the taller one asks, “How did you get in there?”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “We walked right past you, and you can be certain your lack of attention to your duties will not go unmentioned.”
The shorter one glances down at my hand—the one that does not hold the knife. “Do you have orders of some kind?” It may be my imagination, but I think I detect a new note of respect in his voice.
I shove Crunard a short distance from me so they can see my attire. “Do you dare to question one of Mortain’s own?”
The taller guard crosses himself, the superstitious gesture grating on me, but the shorter guard gives a small bow.
“Besides, the guards below had no problem letting us through. Perhaps you should consult with them.”
They pause a long moment, then finally relent. “Very well, demoiselle,” the taller one says. “You may be on your way. I have no wish to keep this traitor from his rightful punishment.”
I nod regally. “In the name of Mortain, I thank you.”
As we step out of earshot of the guards, I feel the hellequin lean in close. “You take great pleasure in throwing that name around, don’t you?”
I swat at him, disappointed when I miss hitting his long nose. “You may go now. I have no more need of your services.”
“Not a chance,” he says, and I fear I can hear amusement in his voice. “Besides, you will need assistance getting him back to Rennes. In truth, you will need assistance getting him out of the city, no?”
And though I wish to argue and tell him he is wrong, I am not willing to jeopardize my prisoner for my pride. “I could manage on my own, but if you insist on hanging about, then you’d best make yourself useful. Return to the inn and collect my saddlebag from my room and then get our horses. If you could find a third horse, that would be most beneficial.”
“And you? What will you do?”
“I am going to get him out of the city gates. We will meet on the outside, near the copse of trees just in sight of the bridge.”
Balthazaar does not even hesitate, simply nods his agreement, and I am reluctantly impressed. Getting two horses, much less three, through the city gates at this hour will be no small feat. I have the far easier task with Crunard.
Once the hellequin has disappeared down the street, I turn to Crunard. “What is the easiest way to get out of the city when the main gate is closed?”
“There is a sally port near the north tower. It is usually only guarded by one man and will be our best chance.”
I stare into his face, trying to determine if he is telling the truth or sending me into a trap.
“It is no lie I tell you, demoiselle. You are my only hope for freedom, and I will not jeopardize it.”
In the end, I have no choice but to trust him, and I am rewarded by the truth of his words. There is but one lone guard on duty. Even better, he is dozing. I glance at Crunard. “Truly, this city’s security is lacking.”
He shrugs. “The duchess is not here. There is no one worth guarding. And they have never particularly cared who got out. It was always preventing someone from getting in that they focused on.”
“Are they not worried that the French will attempt to take the town?”
“I do not know,” he says, his eyes glittering with something sharp. “They no longer include me in their counsel.”
We are fortunate that there is enough moonlight from the crescent moon for us to make our way to the copse of trees without stumbling or breaking an ankle. As we walk, I try to assess Crunard’s movement and determine how old he is and how much his imprisonment has sapped his strength. He does not appear to be ill treated or half starved, which is a relief, as he will not hinder our travel that way.
When we reach the agreed-upon meeting place, I am unsurprised to find Balthazaar already there astride his demon spawn of a horse, holding Fortuna’s reins as well as those of another horse I have never seen. It even sports a fine saddle. I almost ask how he acquired it, then think better of it. “I do not expect to be pursued—at least, not until the guards learn that I was not officially sent, but we should be well behind the gates of Rennes by then, so I am not overly concerned. Even so, I think it best if we put a few hours’ ride between us and the city immediately.” I glance over at Crunard. He is old, but he has also had weeks of rest in his prison and surely he is as eager as I to put some distance between himself and the city. He gives a nod of assent, then turns and motions with his arms that I should untie him.
“Surely a seasoned soldier such as yourself is able to ride a horse with your hands tied.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “Ride, yes. Mount one, no.”
Unfortunately, he is right. I glance at Balthazaar. “Draw your sword.”
He gives a mock bow in his saddle. “With pleasure, my lady.” The ring of steel being unsheathed sounds loud in the quiet darkness. “What would you have me do with it?”
“Be certain he does not try to escape once I untie him.”
“You do not mean to give him free rein?”
“Only long enough to get on his horse.” Drawing my knife, I step forward and use the tip of it to loosen the knots of the rope that binds Crunard’s wrists, careful to avoid nicking his flesh. When I am done, I keep the knife pointed at him. “Get up. Then once you are settled, bring your wrists in front of you and lean down so that I may reach them.”
He stares at me a long moment. “What if I gave you my word that I will not attempt to escape? I am just as eager to be gone from this city as you are.”
“Gone from this city, yes, but I am not at all convinced you wish to face the duchess’s justice. Besides, why would I trust the word of a confirmed traitor?”
After another moment of hesitation, he does what I ask. I hope he will not argue every step of the way, else it will be a most tedious journey. Perhaps I shall have to gag him.
Once he is settled and retied, I mount Fortuna, glad to have her solid, friendly bulk beneath me once more. I hold out my hand to the hellequin so that I may take my own reins and Crunard’s as well. He hands me mine but does not release Crunard’s. “Let me lead him,” he says, sounding surprisingly like Aveline when she is eager for some task that she knows will be denied her.
I bark out a laugh. “I think not.”
“I would not toy with him. Much,” the hellequin grumbles.
“No.” I hold my hand out, and with great reluctance, he gives the reins to me.
I secure Crunard’s reins to my saddle, then nudge Fortuna to the open road.
“So how do you know of the marques?” I finally ask when we have been traveling a while. “That is a well-guarded secret of Mortain’s.”
“As the liaison between the convent and the Breton court, I have worked closely with the abbess for many years. Of a necessity, we have had to share information with each other so that we could ensure no mistakes were made.”
“And yet, not only were mistakes made, but you betrayed the duchess and every measure of trust the abbess has put in you.” I make no effort to hide the censure in my voice, and I wonder again at how the abbess came to judge this man so wrongly. “So, now that I have decided to spare your miserable life, tell me of how Matelaine died.”
“Who?”
I study his face for the signs of lying we have been taught to look for, but there are none. Or else he is an exceptionally accomplished liar. “The first assassin sent to kill you.”
“Other than Ismae, you are the first.”
“You are wrong,” I say firmly, hoping it is not I who am wrong, steered down a false path by the scheming abbess.
“What did she look like?” he asks softly.
“She was young. All of fifteen. Skin as pale as milk and bright red hair.”
“Ah,” he says, and I pounce.
“Tell me.”
There is a long moment of silence before he speaks. “Since you are hungry for information, as I am, I propose an exchange. A trade, if you will. I will answer one of your questions, and you will answer one of mine.”
Before I can respond, Balthazaar butts in. “Or we could play the game my way: If you do not simply answer her question, I will run you through with my sword.”
Crunard does not so much spare him a glance. “Have we a deal?”
“Be careful,” Balthazaar warns me. “He is toying with you, lulling you into a false sense of security.”
“Not that I do not agree, but what makes you think so?”
The hellequin glances over at Crunard, his face growing dark. “Let us just say that one hunter is easily able to recognize the tactics of another.”
I follow the direction of his scowl. “You’re jealous!” I am so surprised I scarce remember to keep my voice low.
He flinches at the word, then looks sorely affronted. “Jealous? Of that old man? Nay, it is just that if anyone is to hunt you, it should be me.”
A flutter of something both terrifying and thrilling moves low in my belly. I know him well enough now to recognize that when he appears to be disgusted with me, it is actually himself he is unhappy with. Before I can say anything, he puts his heels to his horse and, with a flapping of his dark cloak, draws to the front of our group.
I turn my thoughts back to Crunard’s proposal. I have no secrets to hide, and he appears to know nearly as much as I do as to how the convent operates. “Very well. We will trade. What do you know of Matelaine?”
“The truth is, I never met her,” Crunard says. When I open my mouth to protest, he raises his bound hands in an appeasing gesture. “However, one of the kitchen maids used to carry on a flirtation with one of my guards. She fits your description of this Matelaine.”
Matelaine. Flirting with a guard. Most likely so she could get close to Crunard.
“But I have not seen her in weeks,” Crunard adds.
“Because you recognized she was from the convent and killed her.”
“I have already said that I have not. I have nothing to gain from lying at this point.”
“Nevertheless, she is dead.” I stare at him, willing myself to see past the flesh and bone to his soul and discern whether or not he is telling the truth.
“How did she die?” he asks.
I look away. “I do not know. There were no marks on her body, no bruises, cuts, or injuries.”
“Surely the convent has ways of determining the cause of death.”
“True, but we cannot discern it from a glimpse of the body in a bone cart on the side of the road.”
Crunard’s eyes are narrowed in thought. “And she had nothing on her?”
“Only her gown.” She was wearing a plain gown, maid attire, now that I think about it. “And she was holding a white chess piece in her left hand.”
The skin around his eyes tightens imperceptibly, as does his mouth. “I do know how she died, then, and I fear it was naught but an accident,” he says gently. “She was merely caught in a trap set for someone else.”
“An accident,” I repeat hollowly. It was terrible enough that Mat-elaine had died on a mission she was not qualified to undertake. But to have her death be an accident makes it not only tragic but a waste.
Sensing my hesitation, Crunard continues. “If it is the truth you are after, perhaps you should ask yourself why I had access to Arduinna’s snare, the convent’s own poison. If it is the truth you are after, perhaps you should ask yourself why the abbess has sent you here now. Is there to be a trial? Does the duchess know? Duval? Do you truly know whose orders you are carrying out as you stand there and hand out death like God on Judgment Day?”
“You are guilty.”
“No,” he says dryly. “The man I sought to poison is very much alive.” He frowns, as if still unable to understand how that happened, and I think of Ismae and her gift and her love for Duval.
“Perhaps you do not know quite as many convent secrets as you think you do,” I tell him. “Now, what is your question? I would be done with you, at least for now, but I will not go back on my promise.”
“What has the abbess told you of me?”
I am puzzled by the question, but even more so by his manner, which is almost tentative and seems out of character for him. “Nothing,” I say truthfully. “I know only that you were her liaison at court, but she never spoke of you. Not until she explained you were responsible for -Matelaine’s death.”
He is quiet for a long moment before he speaks again. “Have you another question, demoiselle?” While Crunard’s words are most polite, there is an underlying tightness in his tone that perplexes me.
“No more for now,” I tell him. “Only a warning. If you annoy me too much, I will kill you, the abbess and Mortain’s justice be damned.”
At the sound of the god’s name, the hellequin quirks one eyebrow and holds up three fingers. It is the third time I have mentioned the god tonight. I glare at him, until he too falls silent.
Two leagues later, I call a halt for the night. Our horses need rest, even if we do not. It is a tedious camp, with Crunard making exaggerated, stilted movements, as if his bindings are cutting off his very life force, and the hellequin’s moroseness filling the small clearing like smoke from the stuttering fire. I do my best to ignore them both, get Fortuna settled, and locate a soft spot on which to pass the rest of the night.
In an attempt to give Balthazaar something to do beside glare at Crunard, I hand him a length of rope. “Here. Tie Crunard up so that he cannot escape during the night.”
Balthazaar visibly cheers at this, snapping the rope against his hands and carefully considering Crunard as he stalks toward him.
“I will not try to escape,” Crunard says. “There is no need to tie me up.”
“There is every need, as I do not trust you any more than I would a fox who has caught scent of a hen house. Your freedom calls to you so loudly that I can hear it singing in my ears. So, yes, we will tie you up.”
With a sigh, Crunard settles on the ground where the hellequin has pointed. “I have no bedroll,” Crunard observes.
I give a short laugh of disbelief. “I am not some maid to do your bidding and see to your comfort. You are a prisoner being escorted to a trial, a trial where you will very likely be sentenced to death. I care not how comfortable you are.” I glance around us. “It is warm enough that you won’t freeze, and there are no rain clouds nearby. Besides, surely a seasoned soldier such as yourself is well accustomed to a little hardship.”
Crunard’s mouth draws into a tight, firm line. My words have displeased him, and I can see the wheels of his mind turning as he tries to determine how to make me pay for this slight.
I turn to Balthazaar. “Shall I take first watch, or shall you?”
He pauses in his tying. “Hark! What sound is that? Does the fair maid ask for my help?”
I fold my arms. “If I did not plan on using you, I would not have allowed you to accompany us. Now, shall I take first watch, or shall you?”
“I will, as my need for sleep is less than yours.”
“Do I have your promise that you will not somehow manage to kill the prisoner while I sleep?”
He glances at me, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Do you trust me so little, then?”
“Let us just say that it is easy to recognize the tactics of one who is as eager to do Mortain’s work as I am. Your word.”
After a pause, he nods. “You have it.”
Crunard protests. “I cannot believe you will take his word but not mine.”
I shake out my bedroll with a loud snap. “He has had occasion to prove his worth to me—more than once. You have not. Now, hold your tongue, else I will have him gag you.”
After that, there is blessed silence. But even once I have made myself as comfortable as the forest floor will allow, I cannot settle my mind. It is as restless as a horse who has scented a pack of wolves, and I would do well to heed its warning.