Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin (бесплатная регистрация книга .TXT) 📗
A cool calmness settles over me, and I meet the abbess’s impersonal gaze. “That will not be necessary, Reverend Mother. I will go.”
Her face relaxes slightly. “Excellent. I am pleased to see you know where your duty lies.”
“When do I leave?”
“Within the next day or two. I will know more after this afternoon’s council meeting.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
DIZZY AND NUMB, I STUMBLE toward my chamber, desperate for solitude.
It appears all roads lead to d’Albret in the end. Whether I run at him in anger or run away from him in fear, the road will always curve back to him.
Why did I think I could escape? When I first realized I would need to travel with Beast, I knew there was no escape, merely a postponement of the inevitable. But then, once here, I was stupid enough to let hope slip in, even knowing it was merely the gods mocking me.
I had forgotten a lifetime of hard-won lessons in a matter of days.
Clearly I am fated to meet my death at d’Albret’s hands. The real question is, will he meet his at mine?
For that is all that is left to me: to strike quick and sure and true and make utterly certain he dies before me.
Or is it? What would happen if I simply walked away? Surely Duval could protect Ismae. My thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the chamber door. Afraid Ismae has heard of my meeting with the abbess, I hurry to open it, dismayed to find Beast glowering in the hall, arm still raised to knock.
Every word I have ever known flees my head and I stare open-mouthed. He is no longer tinged with gray or green, and his hair has been trimmed. He leans on a cane, but other than that, he appears to have gotten here under his own power.
He lowers his arm. “So you are here. I thought you might be hiding from me.”
Even though I have been doing precisely that for the past week, I scoff. “Why should I hide from you?”
His eyebrows lower ominously, and the look he gives me nearly singes the hair from my head. “I have sent Yannic every night to fetch you so that we may talk. Why have you avoided him?”
That is why he had the little gargoyle following me? I shrug. “I thought you didn’t trust me to identify d’Albret’s men and sent him to check up on me. You made your objections clear enough in the council meeting.”
With visible effort, he unclenches his teeth. “I was objecting because it was too dangerous.”
“Oh? Then you are not angry with me for being d’Albret’s daughter?” I do not know what madness compels me to toss salt in the wounds I have made, but I cannot stop myself.
“I thought you established that you were Mortain’s daughter?”
“Yes, well, that is a mere technicality, as the abbess made clear in that same meeting.”
He shakes his great head. “I do not trust that woman, not wholly. Nor should you.”
That he is right does nothing to warm me to him.
His face softens then, and his eyes lose their angry light. “Sybella, we must talk.”
It is the softness that has me catching my breath, for not in any of my dreams did I imagine I would see him look that way at me. But merde, I cannot afford his sympathy or understanding. Not now, for it will crumble all my resolve faster than I can muster it. “What is there to say? I am the daughter of the man who killed your sister, and, what’s worse, I lied to you about it again and again.”
“Stop it,” he growls. “There is far more to it than that.”
His seeing that fills me with great joy, which I ruthlessly tamp down. “What I know is that I was supposed to stay and kill d’Albret that night, and you stopped me. You ruined the plans I had made and forced me to leave the city with my task undone, and now I must return to finish it.” Saying the words aloud causes my throat to constrict so that I must pause a moment before continuing. “It would have been so much easier then, before I knew—” I stop again, unsure what I mean to say.
The fierce glower is back on his face and he takes a step into the room. “What do you mean, you are returning? On whose orders?”
“The convent’s, for, like you, I am sworn to serve my god, and that is where He wishes me to go.” But even as I say this, I know it is the abbess who wishes me to face d’Albret. I do not know if Mortain is in agreement with her or not. Perhaps this is my punishment for turning my back on Him and the teachings of the convent.
Before we can argue further, a page approaches. He glances from Beast to me, then back to Beast again, unsure as to what is going on. “Do you have a message for one of us?” I prompt.
He clears his throat. “Yes, my lady. Both you and Sir Waroch are requested to attend the council meeting in the duchess’s chambers. I am to escort you there now.”
“But of course,” I say, for this interruption suits me perfectly. I do not wish to be having this conversation at all. “Lead the way.” I step out of my room, forcing Beast to back up so that I do not shut his nose in the door, then I turn and let the page lead me down the hall. I hear the thump of Beast’s cane as he follows.
We are the last to arrive in the council chambers. Seeing us enter the room, the abbess narrows her eyes in disapproval, and I do not know if it is for me alone or because Beast and I are together. Duval motions us to take seats as he continues speaking.
“. . . have taken Lady Sybella’s counsel to heart and have moved up the marriage between Anne and the Holy Roman emperor. It will be taking place this afternoon, by proxy. Hopefully the marriage will afford the duchess some measure of protection, especially since I have received reports that d’Albret and his forces are preparing to leave Nantes and march on Rennes. They may even have left by now, as the last message was hours old.”
Even though I have been expecting the announcement, it sends a spasm of fear down my spine. He will sniff me out just as he did when I was but eight years old and hiding one of the mongrel pups his favorite hunting bitch had given birth to.
Except I will not be here. I will be heading straight for him. Under his own nose may be the one place he might not think to look for me.
Captain Dunois is the next to speak. “Thanks to the Lady Sybella, we have rooted out what we hope to be the last of the saboteurs, so d’Albret will receive no aid once he arrives.”
How can he be so certain? I wonder. We have found seventeen men, but what if there are more? What if I missed some?
“What of the Spanish troops?” the duchess asks, her face drawn and shadowed. “Will they be here before d’Albret?”
“They arrived early this morning, Your Grace,” Captain Dunois says. “My second in command is seeing to their quartering.”
While that is good news, we all know that the one thousand Spanish troops is nearly insignificant against d’Albret’s numbers.
“And the free companies?”
“They have been contracted, Your Grace,” the chancellor tells her. “They should be here in a fortnight.”
Not soon enough.
The duchess turns back to Captain Dunois. “Has the weather cleared enough to let the British troops land?” Those six thousand troops are our one hope of breaking d’Albret’s siege of the city.
Dunois and Duval exchange a grim look. “We have just received word, Your Grace,” he says gently. “The French have taken Morlaix.” A gasp of distress goes up around the room.
“But the English troops!”
“Precisely. They will have to fight their way through the French to reach us—”
“Or be slaughtered where they stand,” Captain Dunois finishes.
There is quiet while we all ponder this latest disaster. It is as if a noose is being tightened around our poor kingdom’s neck. Duval bites back an oath and stands to pace.
Beast, who has been sitting like a simmering pot for the past few moments, finally speaks. “I will leave tomorrow and make all due haste to Morlaix, taking the charbonnerie with me.” He looks at each of the councilors in turn, as if daring any of them to object.
