“METHINKS YOUR ABBESS WAS NOT pleased with the service you offered us in the meeting.”

“She did seem most unhappy. Forgive me if I overstepped, Your Grace. I only wished to help in some way. It is my family, after all, that is plaguing you so.”

Much to my surprise, the duchess stops walking and grabs my wrist. “No,” she says fiercely. “I do not hold you responsible for Count d’Albret’s actions. If I held you responsible for those, then would I not be responsible for what he has done in my name?”

I stare mutely, as I have no answer to give her.

“Tell me,” she whispers, her hands twisting together in a knot. “Tell me of those who died at Nantes. Tell me so that I may honor their memory and the sacrifice that they made.”

In that moment, my budding admiration coalesces into respect. She accepts not only the power and privilege of ruling, but also the painful responsibility.

“The nobles went first. Your seneschal, Jean Blanchet, tried to organize a true defense of the ducal palace, but he was betrayed by Sir Ives Mathurin. Sir Robert Drouet fell in that battle, as well as two dozen men whose names I do not know. The townspeople were confused. They were inclined to trust Marshal Rieux when he said that he spoke on your behalf. It was not until the nobles moved against him that the townspeople realized their error, but it was too late, for they had opened the gate to the city and allowed them in. D’Albret had his troops harry and terrorize the burghers first, in order to weaken any resolve they might have held and to squelch any desire to rise up against him. It worked.

“The servants were the most loyal. They had known and served you since you were a babe. Allixis Baron, your comptroller; Guillaume Moulner, the silversmith; Jehane le Troisne, the apothecary; Pierre the porter; Thomas the doorkeeper; a laundress; a full dozen archers of the guard; your master of the pantry; the cook; two cupbearers; and a full half of the palace guard. They all died with your name on their lips and honor in their hearts.”

Her eyes are bright with tears and I am struck again that she is but thirteen years old. Younger than I was when I first arrived at the convent.

No, I was never that young.

I say the only thing I can think of to comfort her, and in the end, it is not much comfort at all. “The traitors Julliers, Vienne, and Mathurin are dead, Your Grace. They have paid the ultimate price for their crimes.”

She looks up, her eyes gleaming fiercely. “Good,” she says. “If Mortain would bid you kill all the traitors in such a way, I would be most pleased.”

She thinks I killed them all at Mortain’s command. I do not explain that one was done in by my own twisted brother’s jealousy.

The abbess suggests I masquerade as a whore to look for the saboteurs, but Captain Dunois, for all his gruffness, has a chivalrous heart. He will not hear of it. He suggests I disguise myself as a laundress instead and points out, reasonably enough, that a laundress has an equally legitimate excuse for mingling with the soldiers. Besides, many of them traffic in both laundry and favors, so if needs must, I can play the whore in a pinch.

The abbess counts it one more mark against me that Captain Dunois opposes her plan, but it was not my doing.

I lean in close to the silvered mirror and apply small, thin strokes of charcoal to my eyebrows, making them thick and shapeless. Next I take an even smaller piece and create lines of fatigue on my face, after which I put a faint smudge of coal dust under my eyes so I will look exhausted from my toil. I finish the transformation with a smear of black wax on my teeth. In truth, I cannot wait to be someone else for a while, even a poor, drab laundress. Someone who does not leave pain and betrayal and heartache in her wake. Of course, the opportunity to thwart d’Albret is equally welcome.

I take a handful of ashes from the fire and rub them into my hair, making it a shade or two lighter and much coarser-looking. It was my hands that presented the biggest challenge, for even with my recent work with the poultices, they were smoother and softer than a laundress’s should be. To correct that, I soaked them in a strong lye soap solution for nearly two hours. Now they are red and raw and chapped, and they sting accordingly. I am most pleased with my disguise.

“No one will ever recognize you,” Ismae says from where she sits on the bed.

“That is the point,” I say wryly.

“Even so, the transformation is more thorough that anyone could have hoped.” She rises and brings me the linen coif for my hair. It is old and worn out, but far too clean, so I make her dirty it in ashes from the hearth. When that is done, she places it on my head and helps me tuck my hair up under it. “There.” She steps away to see the full effect. Worry creases her brow. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“I have nearly a half a dozen blades under my washerwoman gown.” Two strapped at my waist, one on each thigh, and yet another hidden along my back. I feel nearly n**ed without knives at my wrist, but soldiers can be a grabby lot and I cannot risk them discovering thick, solid steel. “I am ready,” I tell her.

She takes a step toward me, hands clasped in front of her. “Have a care for yourself,” she pleads.

Touched by her concern, for she is one of the few who genuinely care about me, I give her a quick hug. “I will be, but remember, these are but d’Albret’s men, not d’Albret himself. They will be no match for me.”

Somewhat reassured, she smiles. “Very well, then. Let us go find Captain Dunois.”

We find the captain waiting for me in the main hallway. Duval and the abbess are with him. I am torn between pride at showing the abbess how well I can do this task and not wishing to expose myself or my talents to any more of her plots and intrigues.

“Sweet Jésu,” the good captain mutters. “I would never have recognized you.”

Dunois had wanted to escort me on the search himself, but it would have called far too much attention to my presence. Instead, he has handed the assignment off to the commander of Rennes, Michault Thabor, and a few of his most trusted men.

I place perhaps less trust in them than he does, but it is the best we can do under the circumstances.

And then it is time to go. My heart beats with anticipation, and the thrill of a new adventure tingles through my limbs. Feeling saucy, I turn to the abbess. “Will you not invoke Mortain’s blessings on our venture, Reverend Mother?” While I ask it of her out of spite, I realize I would like His blessing, for all that He and I are at odds with each other right now.

Her nostrils flare in irritation, but she bows her head and places a hand on my coifed hair. “May Mortain guide you and keep you in His dark embrace,” she intones, then removes her hand quickly. Even so, I feel somewhat calmer, as if Mortain has somehow heard her in spite of her ill grace.

We leave the palace through the servants’ quarters, but since it is late and most are abed, our passing goes unnoticed.

Outside, a disreputable-looking donkey awaits with two baskets, one on either side. They are even filled with laundry.

Commander Thabor speaks to me in a low voice. “We have identified all the vulnerable spots in the city: the gate towers, the sally ports, the bridges, the cistern, and the gates along the river.”

“Excellent. What of the patrols?”

“We have doubled the watch along the city walls and increased the number of patrols at their base.”

“Where do you suggest we begin?” I ask.

“The east gate, then we will work our way around to the other gates.”

“Very well. Lead on.”

Thabor nods and walks purposefully ahead while his men scatter out so that it will not appear as if we are together. It would not do for me to be seen with them, for what business would the captain of the city guard have with a laundress? I know it is supposed to give me comfort, being followed by the guards, but it makes the skin between my shoulders twitch, which I force myself to ignore.

The city streets are quiet, as all smart or respectable citizens closed their doors and shutters and took to their beds long ago. As we move through streets full of houses leaning drunkenly against one another, the clop-clopping of the donkeys’ hooves echoes off the cobblestones and sounds loud to my ears. However, if people hear us, they just snuggle deeper in their beds or ensure their doors are latched.

The buildings become smaller and seedier as we move farther away from the palace area. Meager shops and small taverns are interspersed among these smaller houses, and the streets are louder. At last we reach the military road that runs along the city wall. No one but soldiers should be on this road at this time of night. We pass three small watchtowers before we finally come to the east gatehouse. Commander Thabor walks past as if hurrying on some business of his own, but he will find some shadow in which to wait for me.

Still leading the donkey, I walk up to the gatehouse and halt just outside the door. The sound of murmuring voices reaches me, as the men on watch amuse themselves by telling stories. I hoist one of the baskets from the donkey’s back, settle it on my hip, then head for the door. The guard on duty watches my approach with lazy eyes. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I am looking for Pierre de Foix.” It is the name of a soldier who has taken ill with the flux and is even now abed in the infirmary. He will most definitely not be on duty.

“He is not here, so you may be on your way.”

My eyes snap with irritation—I do not even have to pretend—and I swat the basket of laundry in annoyance. “He owes me four sous for his laundry. I do not do this backbreaking work out of pity.” I take a step closer to him, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. “Ah, perhaps that is it. Perhaps Pierre has lost all his money dicing. How do I know you are not hiding him, eh? I think he has spent all his money on gambling and will not pay me for my honest work.”

“Honest work,” the guard scoffs.

Like a fishwife, I am merciless. “He told me he was to be on duty this night at this post. Why would he lie to me unless he was trying to cheat me? I will report him to your captain.”

Before I can continue, the guard reaches out, grabs my free arm, and pulls me close. “Do not call me a liar, wench, else I will have to punish you. Here. Look.” With that he pushes me through the gatehouse door and holds me there. “See with your own eyes that the man you seek is not here, then be gone.”

Praying that Thabor’s men will remain in their positions and not do something foolish, I quickly glance at the small group of men. There are five of them, and none are familiar to me. A sixth man turns from the small brazier in the room and grabs his crotch in a rude gesture. “I have something you can wash for me, eh?”

For a brief moment, everything inside me stills. The hair on the man’s head is as brown as a walnut, but his beard is red, and I recognize him as Reynaud, one of my father’s men. Quickly, I toss my head and turn for the door so that he will not be able to see my face. “I do not do small pieces, only large,” I call over my shoulder. That sets the room to guffawing, and I use the opportunity to step beyond the sentry’s reach and back into the night where the cover of darkness will further obscure my features. “He is probably hiding somewhere,” I mutter with ill grace.

The sentry puts a hand to his sword, but I move quickly away. As I do, I see two dark shapes—my guards—step back into the shadows.

I return to the donkey—grumbling just loud enough that the posted guard can hear me—and replace the basket on the donkey’s back. It is not until we have moved into the next street that Commander Thabor appears at my side. “What happened there? Why did he grab you?”

“He thought I was calling him a liar. Which I was,” I say with a smile. “But he let me in to see, so it was worth it.”

“Have a care,” he growls at me, “as I am personally responsible for your safety.”

“Reynaud. I do not know if that is the name he is using here in Rennes, but one of d’Albret’s men is on guard in that gatehouse. The one with the brown hair and the red beard.” Thabor assigns one of his men to stay behind and attach himself to him, then we move on. I am thrilled with this first victory, and the night suddenly holds much promise.

The water tower has a smaller garrison inside. Only four soldiers this time, one of whom offers to buy Pierre’s abandoned laundry, but none of them are d’Albret’s men.

And thus the night goes, with me moving from one gatehouse to the next. Some with a dozen men, others with only four. But none of them with any more potential saboteurs. Bleak discouragement fills me, for if there is one man, I know in my bones there must be others. And I need to find them so we will not feel like sitting ducks waiting for d’Albret to spring his accursed trap.

We have patrolled only the towers on the east side of the city, but already the sky has begun to lighten. My disguise will not hold in broad daylight. With reluctance, I allow Commander Thabor to turn us around so we may begin heading back to the palace. “Do not look so discouraged,” he tells me. “We found one. We will find the others.”

“Yes, but I would prefer to find them sooner rather than later.” Just then a man bursts out of a nearby door, startling my donkey and causing the soldiers to reach for their swords. But it is just a drunken stoneworker, stumbling his way home. I stop. But of course. “I wish to go inside,” I tell Thabor. “For if the men I seek are not on duty, they will most likely be found in a tavern or wine shop.”

“Those were not my orders,” he says tightly.

“Your orders were to accompany me while I flushed out the traitors in our midst. I am not asking your permission, Commander, but telling you what I intend to do.” Our gazes hold for a long tense moment, and I cannot help but remember how easily Beast accepted the risks I took. Despair raises its dark head and I let the pain of it fuel my impatience. “Well?”