Stepsister(90)

Several lanterns had been placed in the centre of the circle. The light they gave illuminated a man wearing a tricorne hat. His dark hair, shot through with gray, was tied in a ponytail underneath it. A traveling cloak swirled about him as he moved. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a commanding stride. A scar ran down one cheek. Lantern light glittered in his violent eyes.

Volkmar, she said silently, her heart nearly shuddering to a stop.

He’s here.





One Hundred and Three


Isabelle sat motionless, watching as Volkmar talked.

He was telling his men to attack Saint-Michel. They were going to slaughter every last person in the village, like they’d done in Malleval. That’s why there were so many of them.

Volkmar finished talking and swept his arm out before him. As he did, another man appeared. He stood at the edge of the lantern’s light, flanked by half a dozen of Volkmar’s soldiers.

Isabelle’s hand came up to her mouth. No, she thought. God help us, no.

It was the grand duke.

Dread bloomed in her belly; its dark vines twined around her heart. Volkmar’s forces had taken him. They must’ve ambushed him as he was coming or going from Paris to Cafard’s camp. How else would they have captured him? What were they going to do with him? Torture him? Execute him? He was one of the most powerful men in the realm. Only the king outranked him.

As Isabelle watched, breathless, Volkmar von Bruch strode up to the grand duke.

And embraced him.





One Hundred and Four


Isabelle felt as if she were made of ice. Her heart had frozen. The blood was solid in her veins. Her breath was frost. If she moved a muscle, she would shatter.

The grand duke, who was sworn to protect king and country, was in league with Volkmar von Bruch. Volkmar, who had slaughtered thousands of French soldiers. Who had burned towns, killed fleeing people.

Isabelle thought of her family. Felix. Her village. She thought of Remy, and the silver cross he’d given her, and his friend, Claude, and all the other young soldiers who might never go home again.

She watched, stone-faced, as Volkmar’s soldiers raised their fists in a noiseless salute to their leader and to the grand duke. She watched as the soldiers walked back to their tents, the fire of war glowing in their faces, as Volkmar and the grand duke made their way to Volkmar’s tent—the tent at the base of the very tree she was in—and sat down in the two canvas chairs in front of it. She watched as a young private appeared with lanterns, a box of cigars, a decanter of brandy and two crystal glasses.

The fear was gone. Isabelle felt only one emotion now—a cold, lethal fury. It didn’t control her now, though; she controlled it. She let it help her instead of hurt her.

Slowly, she climbed down the tree, as silent as a shadow, lowering one bare foot to a branch, then another, without disturbing so much as a single pine needle.

Lower and lower she climbed, until she was only a yard above their heads. And then she listened.

“To France’s new Lord Protector,” Volkmar said, touching his glass to the grand duke’s. “As soon as I defeat the king, the country will be mine and you will rule it for me.”

Smiling, the grand duke bowed his head. Then he handed Volkmar a rolled parchment. “A gift.”

Volkmar took it, broke the red wax seal—the king of France’s seal—and unrolled it.

“A map …” he said, his eyes roving over the document.

“Showing the size and location of every battalion the king has left.”

“Well done!” Volkmar exclaimed. “This will make hunting them all down much easier.” He took a deep swallow of his brandy. “Is everything in order for tomorrow?”

“It is. You will attack Cafard’s camp at dusk. He just sent four regiments to Paris and has only one left. After you kill his remaining troops, go to the field hospital and kill the wounded. I’ve no use for them. Leave Cafard alive, of course, and take him prisoner for appearance’s sake. We’ll reward him when the war is over. He’s been a loyal ally.”

Volkmar looked at the map again. “The civilians of Saint-Michel … will they put up a fight?”

The grand duke chuckled. “With what? Wooden spoons? I’ve been riding up and down the countryside, asking them to donate any weapons they had to the war effort. They’re completely defenseless.”

The young private, Volkmar’s manservant, appeared again. Volkmar handed him the map and asked him to take it inside his tent, then bring them some food.

“I want to move swiftly on the king’s other garrisons as soon as we’re finished in Saint-Michel. Take them one by one until we get to the king himself,” said Volkmar.

“I say take the king first. He'll surrender and that will break the spirit of any surviving troops.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“He will. I'm certain of it. Don’t forget that we have a very valuable bargaining chip.”

Volkmar arched an eyebrow. “You’re not terribly fond of your young sovereign, are you?”

The grand duke’s expression soured. “The king is a fool. He had his pick of princesses from esteemed royal houses and he married a kitchen girl. He allows her to persist in her idiotic missions—caring for the wounded, housing orphans in the homes of the nobility—when it would be so much less of a burden on the crown’s coffers to simply let them die. My own chateau is swarming with peasant brats.” He shook his head disgustedly. “The king has demeaned the crown. While he fights in the field, a lowborn girl sits on the throne of France. Worse yet, the heir to the throne will have the blood of a commoner running in his veins.”