“Aldéric Jourdain,” he replied, handing me his handkerchief so I could wipe the blood from my neck.
Of course. Irritated, I took the square of linen and settled back into the coach, my thumb rushing over my pendant. As Jourdain climbed in behind me, shutting the door, I thought of only one thing.
Who, indeed, had I just become the daughter to?
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. We made good time, arriving to a small town just over the Christelle River as the sun sank behind the treetops. While Jean David delivered the horses and coach to the communal stables, I followed Jourdain to his carefully selected inn. The scent of roasting fowl and watery wine met us, permeating my hair and dress as we found a table in the corner of the tavern hall. There were a few clusters of other travelers, most of whom looked windblown and sunburned, most of whom hardly spared us a second glance.
“We shall have to get you some new clothes when we reach home,” Jourdain said after the servant girl had delivered a bottle of wine and two wooden cups.
I watched him pour it, a trickle of red that made me think of blood. “You’ve killed before.”
My statement made him stiffen, like I had tossed a net over him. He purposefully plopped down the bottle of wine, then set down my cup before me and chose not to answer. I watched him drink, the light of the fire casting long shadows over his face.
“Those thieves were vile, yes, but there is a code of justice here in Valenia,” I whispered. “That crimes are to be brought before a magistrate and a court. I should think you would know such, being a lawyer.”
He gave me a warning glance. I knitted my lips together as the servant girl delivered seedy bread, a wheel of cheese, and two bowls of stew to our table.
Only when the girl had returned to the kitchens did Jourdain square up to me, set down his cup with frightening gentleness, and say, “Those men were going to kill us. They would have slain Jean David, then me, and saved you for their pleasure before giving you the blade. If I had merely injured them, they would have pursued us. So tell me again why you are upset that we lived?”
“All I am saying is you dealt a Maevan justice,” I responded. “An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Death before trial.” Only then did I lift my cup to him and drink.
“Are you likening me to him?” “Him” obviously being King Lannon. And I heard the hatred in Jourdain’s voice, the indignation that I would even string him and Lannon on the same thought.
“No,” I said. “But it makes me wonder . . .”
“Wonder what?”
I tapped my fingers on the tabletop, drawing the moment out. “Perhaps you are not as Valenian as you seem.”
He leaned forward, his tone sharp as he stated, “There is a time and place for such a conversation. This tavern is not it.”
I bristled under his reprimand—I was unaccustomed to it, this fatherly chiding. And I would have rebelliously kept talking had Jean David not entered and joined our table.
I don’t think I had heard the coachman speak one word since I had met him that morning. But he and Jourdain seemed able to communicate with mere glances, gestures. And they did such as they began to eat, holding wordless conversations since I was in their presence.
It bothered me at first, until I realized I could sit and focus on my own mulling without interruption.
Jourdain looked and sounded Valenian.
But then again, so did I.
Was he a dual citizen as well? Or perhaps he was a full-blooded Maevan who had once served beneath Lannon and fled in defiance, weary of serving a cruel, unrighteous monarch? It was only a matter of time before I found him out, I thought as I salvaged the last of my stew.
Jean David unexpectedly rose with a bump to the table, finished with dinner. I watched him leave the hall with his gentle gait, his black hair so oily it looked wet in the rosy light, and realized Jourdain must have silently dismissed him.
“Amadine.”
I turned back around to meet Jourdain’s calm stare. “Yes?”
“I am sorry you had to witness that today. I . . . I realize you have led a very sheltered life.”
Part of this was true; I had never seen a man die. I had never seen that much blood spilled. But in other ways . . . books had prepared me more than he realized. “It’s all right. Thank you for your protection.”
“One thing you should know about me,” he murmured, nudging his empty bowl aside. “If anyone so much as threatens my family, I won’t hesitate to kill them.”
“I am not even of your blood,” I whispered, surprised by his steely resolve. I had only been his adopted daughter for one day.
“You are part of my family. And when the thieves tore apart your things, threw your books in the mud, threatened you . . . I reacted.”
I didn’t know what to say, but I let my gaze remain on his face. My embers of defiance and irritation faded into darkness, because the longer I looked upon him, my patron father, I sensed that something in his past had made him this way.
“Again, I am sorry you had to see such of me,” he said. “I do not want you to fear me.”
I reached across the table, offering my hand. If we were going to succeed in whatever plans we authored, we would have to trust each other. Slowly, he set his fingers in mine; his were warm and rough, mine were cold and soft.
“I do not fear you,” I whispered. “Father.”
He squeezed my fingers. “Amadine.”
FOURTEEN
PASSION BROTHER
Town of Beaumont, Province of Angelique
We reached the river town of Beaumont just as the sun was setting on the second day of travel. This was the farthest west I had ever ventured, and I was enchanted by the vast miles of vineyards that graced the land.
Beaumont was a large town, built along the banks of the lazy Cavaret River, and I intently watched as we passed the market square and the atrium of a small cathedral. All the buildings appeared the same to me, built from bricks and marbled stones, tall and three-storied, hugging narrow cobbled roads.
The coach eventually stopped before a brick town house. A pebbled walkway to the front door was choked with moss and flanked by two cranky sweetgum trees, whose branches rattled against the windows.
“Here we are,” Jourdain announced as Jean David opened the coach door.
I took the coachman’s hand and stepped down, and then I accepted Jourdain’s arm when he offered it, surprised by how thankful I was to have his support. We walked in stride along the path, up the stairs to a red door.
“They are all eager to meet you,” he murmured.
“Who?” I asked, but he had no time to respond. He guided me over the threshold and we were met by two waiting faces in the foyer, their eyes latching to me with polite inquisition.
“This is the chamberlain, Agnes Cote, and this is the chef, Pierre Faure,” Jourdain introduced.
Agnes gave me a well-rehearsed bob of a curtsy in her simple black dress and starched apron, and Pierre smiled behind the flour smudged on his face, and bowed.