Chapter Fifty
THREE DAYS LATER, I am in the solar with the duchess and her ladies in waiting. They are stitching, but I find I cannot sit still. I feel as if every bone in my body has been taken out and put back in in the wrong place, and I must relearn how to move, to think, to act. I try to be subtle about it, but the duchess keeps glancing in my direction, looking as if she is about to say something then changing her mind. I am supposed to offer her protection and comfort, not disturb her with my restlessness. I have just decided that, propriety be damned, I will tie myself to one of the chairs in order to keep still when there is a commotion just outside the door. The duchess and I exchange glances, then I move in that direction, my hands reaching for my weapons. Just as my blades clear their sheaths, Duval comes through the door. His eyes are bright and tension runs through his body like a bow that has just been drawn. He glances at my knives, nods in approval, then turns to the duchess. “Ismae has returned,” he says, and it is impossible not to love him a little for the relief that colors his voice. “She wishes to speak with you immediately.”
The duchess has already risen to her feet and is handing her embroidery to one of her attendants. “Shall we call the other councilors?”
“Yes.”
Duval sends a swarm of pages off to collect the others, then together, the three of us make our way to the council chambers. When we arrive, we find Ismae already there. She has not taken the time to change from her traveling gown. “Your Grace.” She sinks into a low curtsy.
The duchess puts out her hand and helps her rise. “I am glad you are safely returned to us,” she says.
“As am I. I only wish I had better news to bring you.” Before she can elaborate further, the rest of the councilors begin filing into the chamber. The bishop and the abbess arrive together, a most disconcerting sight, and I cannot help but wonder if she has decided to try to curry his favor in preparation for the accusations I will soon be making.
When Sybella arrives and sees that Ismae is safe, her lips curve in pleasure, but she says nothing as she comes to stand beside me at our post behind the duchess’s chair. She nudges my elbow with her own, whether in joy at Ismae’s return or simply to annoy the abbess, I do not know. One never knows with Sybella.
When everyone is seated, Duval motions to Ismae. “Tell us what you have learned.” His face is tense and grim and I wonder if she has already told him what transpired in private.
“The French hold the city of Nantes easily enough—there is no resistance.” She glances apologetically at the duchess as she says this. “I was not able to get into the palace proper. They have double guards posted at every entrance, and everyone who comes through the doors must be vouched for by at least two others. They are taking no chances. They closed the gates to the city shortly after I got there and are not letting anyone out. There were also reports that they were going to post checkpoints along the northern roads.”
“They did,” Duval says. “They were able to intercept our scouts so that the army’s arrival caught us by surprise.”
“Just as I arrived in Rennes this morning, the French troops showed up in front of the city gate. I was one of the last they let through, and the gates were shut and bolted behind me.”
“And so it is official, then,” Duval mutters. “We are besieged.”
“With no help is on the way,” Chalon adds. Duval looks as if he wishes to kick him.
Slowly, the duchess turns to me. Her dark eyes are haunted and in them I can see that she has turned over and over my suggestion. Winning the heart of the king of France is the only way to wrest some victory from defeat and save her people. “I think I would like you all to hear what Lady Annith has to say.”
There is a moment of stunned silence and the councilors exchange surprised glances, as if they are trying to remember who Lady Annith is.
The duchess continues. “We have one last option, one that Annith brought to my attention only a short while ago. It is . . . far-fetched, to put it mildly, and I do not know if it can be done, but I would have her tell you, so we may at least discuss it. Lady Annith?”
I take a deep breath and tell the Privy Council of the last of Arduinna’s arrows that I possess and what I believe we may use it for. I direct most of my tale to Ismae and Duval, for they will be the easiest to convince.
As I had presumed, the rest of the council is skeptical of the plan. The bishop in particular looks both scornful and indignant. “But she has already married the Holy Roman emperor,” he protests.
“By proxy,” Duval points out.
Father Effram places a hand on the bishop’s arm, reining in his protests. “And it is not uncommon for the pope to grant annulments when the need for political expediency is great.”
“That is true,” the bishop reluctantly concedes.
Montauban and Captain Dunois are more polite in expressing their doubts over the plan. It is only Duval who seems truly heartened. He has learned of the old gods through Ismae, so he understands their power more than the most. Only then, when I know I have his support, do I allow myself to look at the abbess. Her gaze is fixed on me, her rage etched in grim lines on either side of her mouth. If it were not for the presence of the council, I am certain she would fly across the table and strike me.
In the end, all on the council agree that it is worth trying, although the only reason the abbess does so is so that her lone objection will not be noted.
The rest of the council meeting turns into a planning session, for it is no small thing to work one’s way into the heart of fifteen thousand French troops, locate their king, then shoot him with an arrow. Not to mention get back out again.
“She cannot go on foot.” Duval gives a firm shake of his head. “It could take her days to walk through the encampment, allowing them far too much time to detect her. But more importantly, she would have no means of escape, for once the king has been hit, his guard will swarm her like flies.”
“It is not impossible,” Ismae points out with a glance in Sybella’s direction. “She could easily post as a laundress or camp follower and go unnoticed.”
“Not and make her way through thousands of French soldiers.”
“Sybella did it.”
“Briefly, and only to collect information. And while the army was just arriving and in disarray.”
“We are trained to stealth and cunning.” Ismae’s voice holds a note of gentle reproach. “You do Annith a disservice by not trusting in her abilities.”
Duval turns to me. “My apologies, Lady Annith, for it is not you I do not trust, but the fifteen thousand French soldiers. With that many men, there is just too great a chance you would be noticed, and your disguise will afford you little protection if you draw enough soldiers’ interest.”
“Sybella and I could go with her.”
Duval snorts. “So you can gut every soldier who propositions you and leave a trail of dead bodies in your wake? I do not think that will help her go unnoticed.”
Beast clears his throat—somewhat delicately, given his size. “Must it be her that shoots the arrow?”
Duval glances at me in question. My hand slowly drifts up to the back of my neck, my fingers seeking out the small mark that I have never seen. “Yes,” I say. “It must.”
“Why not one of the Arduinnites?” The abbess’s voice is pitched high, shrill even.
I turn and look at her coldly. “To what purpose? I can ride as well as they can, shoot as accurately as any of them. What do we gain by asking them?”
“Your life,” Duval says gently.
I know he means well, that he has only my safety in mind, so I work to keep my voice level. “I am done sending others out to risk their lives while I sit safely behind. I will do this.” Besides, of all the great dreams I once had, of serving the gods, of making some contribution, this is now the only way I can do that.
“Very well. So Annith going by foot is out, as is sending others. No, Ismae.” Duval puts his hand up to forestall further argument. “The trick will be getting mounted riders through the encampment. Even a small group would be immediately noticed.”
“What if we just sent a full mounted guard and punched through the camp like a battering ram, clearing her a path to the king?” Beast says, and Sybella looks as if she will stride across the room and clout his thick head. “If we sent enough men, there should be some left to get her safely back.”
“Except,” Captain Dunois points out, “how will you get any mounted men out of this city without their being noticed? For once they are seen, the French archers will pick them off. Or send a matching force to fight them.”
We all grow silent, for that is indeed the biggest problem. Getting enough of a force—getting anyone—out undetected.
Duval sighs and scrubs his hand over his face. “Well, this will not be decided tonight. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”
“Aye.” Captain Dunois’s voice is heavy with disgust. His face is nearly gray with fatigue, and my heart goes out to him. “There is a problem with the mercenaries.”
“What now?” Duval says in disbelief. “Dare I hope that they are killing one another?”
“No, but their numbers have dwindled all the same. It is the French, my lord. They have been in contact with the mercenaries.”
“How? All the entrances to the city are well guarded.”
“With this.” Beast dumps something heavy on the council table. It is a rolled-up ladder made of leather. “The French threw this up and over the wall, then climbed in.”
Duval looks as if he would like to strike something. “And to what purpose?”
“Aware of our empty treasury, the French have offered the mercenaries their back pay, as well as a bonus if they agree to leave the city.”
Duval looks as if he will be ill. “Double—no, triple—the perimeter watch.” He grimaces. “How many of the mercenaries have taken them up on their offer?”
“Nearly a third.”
There is a long moment of silence as that number sinks in. “Well, at least when the food stores get low, there will be that many fewer mouths to feed.”
But for all the bright polish he tries to put on it, it is a grim blow indeed.