Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)
Robin Lafevers
To my own patron saints:
Nancy Warner,
for patching me back together time and again
so I could leap once more into the fray;
Erin Murphy,
who sometimes saw this story more clearly than I did;
Kate O’Sullivan,
for her unwavering support and enthusiasm;
and Mary Hershey,
for creating a safe place
where we could have all the hard and scary conversations.
Dramatis Personae
LADY SYBELLA, handmaiden to Death ISMAE RIENNE, handmaiden to Death ANNITH, a novitiate of Mortain ABBESS OF SAINT MORTAIN
ALAIN D’ALBRET, a Breton noble with extensive holdings in France PIERRE D’ALBRET, his son JULIAN D’ALBRET, his son CHARLOTTE D’ALBRET, his ten-year-old daughter LOUISE D’ALBRET, his seven-year-old daughter BERTRAND DE LUR, captain of d’Albret’s guard JAMETTE DE LUR, his daughter TEPHANIE, lady in waiting to Lady Sybella MADAME FRAN?OISE DINAN, the duchess’s former governess JEAN RIEUX, marshal of Brittany and the duchess’s former tutor TILDE, a maid ODETTE, her younger sister BARON JULLIERS, a Breton noble BARON VIENNE, a Breton noble BARON IVES MATHURIN, a Breton noble BENEBIC DE WAROCH, the Beast of Waroch and a knight of the realm YANNIC, the jailor GUION, a Breton farmer BETTE, his wife JACQUES, their son ANTON, their son
The Charbonnerie: ERWAN, their leader GRAELON, a charbonnerie man LAZARE, a charbonnerie man WINNOG, a charbonnerie youth MALINA, a charbonnerie woman
The Breton Court and Nobility ANNE, Duchess of Brittany, Countess of Nantes, Montfort, and Richmont ISABEAU, her sister DUKE FRANCIS II (Anne’s father, deceased) GAVRIEL DUVAL, a Breton noble JEAN DE CHALON, Prince of Orange MICHAULT THABOR, commander of the Rennes city guard CAPTAIN DUNOIS, captain of the Breton army PHILLIPE MONTAUBAN, chancellor of Brittany BISHOP OF RENNES
CHARLES VIII, king of France ANNE DE BEAUJEU, regent of France MAXIMILIAN OF AUSTRIA, the Holy Roman emperor, one of Anne’s suitors SIR DE BROSSE, man-at-arms SIR LORRIL, man-at-arms SIR LANNION, man-at-arms SIR GAULTIER, man-at-arms ABBESS OF ST. MER
SAMSON, a blacksmith’s son CLAUDE, a woodcutter’s son
Chapter One
NANTES, BRITTANY, 1489
I DID NOT ARRIVE AT the convent of Saint Mortain some green stripling. By the time I was sent there, my death count numbered three, and I had had two lovers besides. Even so, there were some things they were able to teach me: Sister Serafina, the art of poison; Sister Thomine, how to wield a blade; and Sister Arnette, where best to strike with it, laying out all the vulnerable points on a man’s body like an astronomer charting the stars.
If only they had taught me how to watch innocents die as well as they taught me how to kill, I would be far better prepared for this nightmare into which I’ve been thrust.
I pause at the foot of the winding steps to see if I am being watched. The scullery woman scrubbing the marble hall, the sleepy page dozing against the doorway—either one of them could be a spy. Even if neither has been assigned to watch me, someone is always willing to tattle in the hopes of earning a few crumbs of favor.
Caution prevails and I decide to use the south stairs, then double back through the lower hall to approach the north tower from that side. I am very careful to step precisely where the maid has just washed, and I hear her mutter a curse under her breath. Good. Now I can be certain she has seen me and will not forget if she is questioned.
In the lower hall, there are few servants about. Those who have not been driven out are busy with their duties or have gone to ground like wise, clever rats.
When at last I reach the north wing of the palace, it is empty. Quickening my pace, I hurry toward the north tower, but I am so busy looking behind me that I nearly stumble over a small figure sitting at the base of the stairs.
I bite back an oath of annoyance and glare down to see it is a child. A young girl. “What are you doing here?” I snap. My nerves are already tightly strung, and this new worry does them little good. “Where is your mother?”
The girl looks up at me with eyes like damp violets, and true fear clutches at my gut. Has no one thought to warn her how dangerous it is for a pretty child to wander these halls alone? I want to reach down and shake her—shake her mother—and shout at her that she is not safe, not on these steps, not in this castle. I force myself to take a deep breath instead.
“Mama is dead.” The child’s voice is high and quivery.
I glance to the stairs, where my first duty lies, but I cannot leave this child here. “What is your name?”
“Odette,” she says, uncertain whether to be frightened of me or not.
“Well, Odette, this is no place to play. Have you no one to look after you?”
“My sister. But when she is working, I am to hide like a little mouse.”
At least her sister is no fool. “But this is not a good place to hide, is it? Look how easily I found you!”
For the first time, the girl gives me a shy smile, and in that moment, she reminds me so much of my youngest sister, Louise, that I cannot breathe. Thinking quickly, I take her hand and lead her back to the main hallway.
Hurry, hurry, hurry nips at my heels like a braying hound.