Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(38)
“Perhaps not,” I say, disappointed, for I know that is not the reason, or at least, it is only one part of it.
“What do you know of d’Albret?” Beast asks.
“More than I care to,” I mutter as I place another poultice on his arm to draw out the infection.
“You do well to fear him. Even for someone with your skills, it is not safe to be near the man.”
I fight the urge to laugh in his face for daring to warn me of the dangers d’Albret presents. “You need not worry. I know all about Count d’Albret. Stories circulated throughout his hall faster than the annual plague. Indeed, it was one of the old women’s favorite pastimes, terrorizing us with the tale of d’Albret’s first wife. Have you heard it?” I glance up, my eyes wide and innocent.
He gives a curt shake of his head.
“Oh, la, everyone knows the story of his first wife. Indeed, it has become legend, one told by beleaguered husbands and tired matrons when they wished their wives or young charges to be more pliant. ‘Did I ever tell you the story of Count d’Albret’s first wife, Jeanne?’ they would ask. ‘She thought to escape her wifely duties and fled to her family home, where she begged sanctuary with her brother. Well, her fool brother should have known better than to come between a man and his wife, but he had a soft heart and agreed to harbor her against the cruelty she claimed of her own husband.
“‘But that d’Albret,’ they’d say, often with admiration in their voice, ‘he let no man take what was rightfully his and certainly not some baron from Morbihan. He rode with a full battalion of men straight to the baron’s holding, where he burst through the gates and slaughtered every one of the men-at-arms as they scrambled for their weapons. He rode his horse right into the main hall and killed the baron at his table, and then d’Albret struck down his own wife even as she begged for mercy.’” As I tell the story, I feel those earlier tendrils of hope begin to wither. What was I thinking? There can be no escape from d’Albret. All I have done is delay the inevitable.
“To be certain his point was made,” I continue, “d’Albret killed the baron’s wife and two young sons and the newborn babe she nursed at her breast.” My heart twists painfully at the thought of that babe. “Wives usually did what their husbands asked of them after that tale was told.” I look up to see that Beast’s face is hard as stone. “So yes, I do know what d’Albret is capable of.”
I remove the poultice, relieved to see the swelling has already gone down. Next, I reach for the flask of spirits. “This will sting a bit,” I tell him. It is a lie, for it will burn like fire, but I cannot talk to this man anymore. I know from long experience that hope is but a taunt from the gods, and I hate that somehow this man causes me to feel it.
Beast opens his mouth to speak just as I tilt the flask. “My sister was his sixth wife—” The spirits hit his raw flesh and he rears up on the table, roaring in pain, before finally blacking out.
Chapter Seventeen
SHOCKED, I STARE DOWN AT the unconscious giant before me. His sister was d’Albret’s wife? How can that be? What crazed, tangled web have the gods woven around us?
I study the lumpy, bruised face, searching for signs of Alyse, d’Albret’s sixth wife. She spoke of having a brother, but it is hard to imagine them springing from the same womb.
Knowing I will not be able to sleep with Beast’s admission plaguing me like the biting flies of high summer, I tell the gargoyle that I will take the first watch. Even though this hunting lodge is well hidden, we dare not lower our guard.
He does not argue and curls up near the dying fire and falls asleep with an ease I cannot help but envy. Only then, when no one can see, do I let myself think of Alyse.
Her hair was the reddish blond of a fox kit’s fur, and her face covered in freckles that my brothers claimed were the pox but that I thought were merely homely. She was always bringing flowers into the house, not just from our formal garden, but from the meadows as well. Even budding branches from the fruit trees in our orchard, which made the servants think she was daft.
Even more exhilarating, she brought smiles and laughter. It was as if the sun had finally emerged from the clouds in our household, or at least at first. My older brothers took cruel delight in tormenting and teasing her. And Julian, well, I think he begrudged her my affection, for every minute I spent with her was one I did not spend with him. And even with all of that, she was kind to me up until the end.
That Beast is her brother . . . well, clearly the gods are having a rich jape at my expense.
Or . . . the thought comes to me slowly . . . perhaps they are giving me a chance to balance the scales of justice. For if I am able to save this man from d’Albret’s dungeons and deliver him safely to Rennes, I will have paid back some small part of the debt I owe his family.
Desperate to distract myself from the truth I have just learned, I push away from the sleeping knight and pick up the filthy discarded clothing and the dirty rags. We will have to bury these. Or perhaps I will send the gargoyle out to burn them. If he could set the fire at a great enough distance, it might even direct d’Albret’s search away from us.
When I have tidied as best I can, I take a sharpening stone from one of the bundles and move outside. The rain has stopped, which will make it easier to listen for approaching horses. I remove one of my knives from its sheath and draw the stone along its edge. The faint scraping sound is as calming as a lullaby to my frayed nerves. Like a scavenger eager to pick over carrion, my reeling mind keeps returning to the one thing I do not want to think about. Truly, the gods have outdone themselves this time, for there are few people in this world I owe a greater debt to than Alyse. There are fewer people my family has wronged more horribly.