Dark Triumph

“What? What is wrong?” I murmur, not wishing to break the mood.



He does not answer; instead, he reaches up to his chest as if it pains him, then blood appears on his lips. Sweet Mortain! Is he having a fit of some sort?



Like a hanged man cut down from a gibbet, he collapses, all his weight slumping onto me so that I nearly topple backwards. A great, dark flapping thing rises from him.



It is the part I hate most about killing, having to endure the forced intimacy of the victim’s soul touching mine as it leaves their body. It is just as shocking and unwanted as my first kiss. I steel myself and allow the rush of images to wash over me: D’Albret’s thick arm around the baron’s shoulders, lulling him into a misplaced sense of security. A feeling of smugness, that I had chosen him rather than Julliers or Vienne. And hidden deepest of all, a twinge of conscience at having betrayed the young duchess, well buried under false assurances that d’Albret would make her a good husband.



Suddenly, the baron’s lifeless body is thrust aside, and I come face to face with a tall, dark figure holding a sword that still drips with blood.



“Julian!” I whisper, shocked to my core.



He steps forward, his mouth set in hard lines, his face cast in shadow. “Have you forgotten, sister? You are mine.”



His words chill me to the bone, and I fold my arms across my middle and grip my elbows to keep my hands from shaking.



“Only mine,” he says softly, as if whispering a lover’s endearment. “No one shall put his slobbering mouth or groping hands upon you.” He looks down at the body and nudges it with his boot. “And certainly not this craven creature.”



Now I understand the look he sent me at dinner. It was a promise of reprisal.



I step quickly and easily into the role I must play. Indeed, I am as skilled as any alchemist, but instead of turning lead into gold, I turn my fear into daring, and assuredly that is a far greater trick. The smile I give him is brittle with annoyance, and I toss my hair for full effect. “Is that what you thought was happening, Julian? Can you truly know me as well as you claim?”



The banked fury inside him cools somewhat. “Then why are you here?”



Has he not heard? I tilt my head. “Our father assigned me to use my feminine wiles to ascertain if Mathurin planned to betray him to the French.”



A muscle in his jaw clenches. “And would you have gone through with it?”



In answer, I raise the knife that I hold in my hand.



His eyes burn intently into mine, as if he can scorch the truth from their depths. “Truly?”



I laugh. I cannot help it. “You think I wished to dally with that soft, thick goose? Julian, have a little faith. In my taste if not in me.”



He drops his sword on the floor, steps over the body, and grabs my shoulders. My heart slams against my ribs as he spins me around and backs me against the wall. He leans in close. “Do you swear it?”



My heart beats too fast—he must not smell that fear. I take that fear and use it to stoke the fires of my anger. I push him—hard. “You are acting the fool. I swear it on God and all nine of His saints. Now let go, you’re hurting me.”



Like quicksilver, his mood shifts. He snatches my free hand and brings it to his mouth. “I should not have doubted you.” His breath warm against my skin, he turns my hand over and presses his mouth to my wrist.



“No, you should not have.” I tug at my hand, relieved when he lets it go. To be certain he does not grab it again, I begin re-coiling my hair into place. “How will I explain this to Father?”



Julian shifts his gaze to the dead Mathurin. “We shall say he was guilty, just as Father suspected, and you caught him in the act. You had no choice but to kill him before he got another message to the duchess.”



“Another message?”



Julian’s eyes are unreadable. “Of course—for you learned that it was he who warned the duchess of our failed trap.”



Reluctantly, I admire how nimbly Julian has used this to our advantage. To my advantage, for once again, he has found a way to protect me from d’Albret’s wrath. But this presents a new danger as well, for I must now assume Julian suspects it was I who issued that warning.



“I will take care of the body,” he adds.



I arch a brow at him and sniff. “It is the least you owe me for your lack of faith in me.”



He grabs my hands. “A kiss,” he begs, “to prove that you are not angry with me.”



I consider refusing, but I am a coward and dare not, not when he may know so many of my most dangerous secrets. Dread hammers through my veins as he leans down and places his mouth on mine. I allow my mind to drift away from my body, much like Mathurin’s soul left his. It is the only way I can bear Julian’s touch.



He is not my brother, he is not my brother.



That is another reason I cling so fiercely to my tattered belief in Mortain. If He is indeed my father, then Julian and I do not share so much as a drop of blood.



Julian sends me back to my room while he stays to clean up his mess. I move stiffly, like a puppet on a string, feeling as hollow and gutted as the fish we had for supper.



When I finally reach my chamber, it is empty except for a scullery maid, who is building up the fire for the night. She sees me and scurries away, afraid one glance from me will turn her into a toad, or that I will strike her for daring to breathe the same air as I.



Servants of my father have been punished for less.



I go immediately to the comfort of the bright yellow flames and stand as close to their warmth as I dare. My hands are trembling, my very bones shivering, and every fiber of my being is screaming for me to flee.



I think of the rush of Mathurin’s soul as it left his body. I want—crave—that release for myself with a longing so deep, and sharp, it cuts like a blade. I remember standing atop the battlements and feeling a heady sense of freedom as the wind promised to carry me far, far away. Is that what souls feel when they are released from their earthly bodies?



Tephanie comes in just then, her big awkward feet shuffling along the floor. She curtsies hurriedly, then rushes to my side. “My lady! I am so sorry to have left you alone. I thought you were . . .” She waves her hand inelegantly.



I am too weary and heartsick to even pretend to snap at her. “See that it does not happen again,” I say tiredly.



Her brow creases with worry. “Yes, my lady,” she says. “Are you ill?”



“No, just tired.”



“But you are shivering! Here, let me fetch you something hot to drink.”



I allow her to fuss over me, and once she has handed me a goblet, she goes to turn down the coverlet on the bed and warm the sheets.



As she shuffles quietly about the room, I stand near the fireplace and gulp my wine, waiting for the trembling to pass. I wish, desperately, to take a bath, but it is far too late and would call too much attention to myself. Even so, between Mathurin’s blood and Julian’s kiss, I feel tainted beyond bearing.



“My lady?”



When I look up, Tephanie is holding out my chamber robe. “Shall I help you undress?”



“If you please.”



Her hands are gentle as she helps me out of my clothes. Unlike Jamette, she knows how to keep silent, and I find the quiet of her company soothing. As she puts away my gown, I take the cup of wine over to my small jeweled casket and open it. After setting the goblet down, I remove a small crystal vial from the box. It is a sleeping draft Sister Serafina gave me as a parting gift when I left the convent. She did not say so, but I could see she was unhappy with the abbess for sending me out so soon and knew I would need help if I were to sleep at all.



For a brief moment, I consider dumping the entire contents into my wine. If I drink all of it, I will never wake up. The thought of going to sleep and never having to deal with d’Albret or the abbess or Julian again is as seductive as a siren’s song.



But what if Death rejects me once more? Then I will be forced to lie, weak and vulnerable, at the mercy of others while I recover. A most terrifying thought.



Besides, what if the knight truly is alive—what will become of him if I am dead? I slip two drops into my wine, return the vial to the box, and lock it.



Even more important, if I am dead, who will kill d’Albret? For he must die, marque or no.



Tephanie has finished warming the bed and comes to unpin my hair. She begins combing it out with a surprisingly light touch, given how clumsy and awkward she is. I close my eyes and let the gentle strokes calm some of the fear from me. Her ministrations remind me of how Ismae and Annith and I used to take turns combing and dressing one another’s hair at the convent. Sweet Mortain, how I miss them.



Abruptly, I turn around. “You will sleep in here tonight,” I tell her.



She stops what she is doing and looks at me in surprise. “My lady?”



I cannot tell her that I need her, that I wish her company, so instead I say, “I am not feeling well and may require someone to attend me during the night.”



She looks stunned, but pleased. The ninny thinks this is some great honor, not the desperate act of a coward, and I do not disabuse her of that notion.



That night, when Julian comes scratching at my door, Tephanie gets up to see who it is. I do not hear what she says, as my head is groggy from Sister Serafina’s potion, but her presence is enough to drive him away. She returns to the bed and crawls back under the covers. “Your brother wished to see how you were doing. He said you had a headache at dinner and he wanted to be sure it was gone.”



“It is,” I say, and scoot over so she may have the warmest spot. She deserves that much, at least, for chasing off the monsters.



Chapter Eight



WHEN I COME AWAKE IN the morning, my first thought is of the knight the abbess wishes me to free. His anguished bellow of defeat as he was struck down haunted my dreams.



Even at the convent, we had heard of the mighty Beast of Waroch and of how his ability to rally his countrymen—noblemen and peasant alike—to the duke’s cause allowed us to win our past three battles.



As I listen to Tephanie’s gentle snoring, I wonder why the fallen knight has so captured my imagination. Was it because he fought so valiantly against such overwhelming odds? Because of his dedication to his young duchess? Or simply because I looked into his eyes just before he died?



For he is dead. I saw him struck down with my own . . . ah, but Julian arrived just then. I never saw the knight’s lifeless body. And it is said that men in the throes of battle lust can suffer much damage, yet live.



When I went to bed last night, I vowed to ignore the abbess’s message. But now, now all I can think of is that noble knight rotting—or worse—in d’Albret’s dungeon.



I place one of my cold feet on Tephanie and she stirs at last—the great slug. She blinks twice to clear the confusion from her eyes, then remembers where she is and with whom. “My lady! I beg your forgiveness. I have overslept.”



“Did you know that you snore?” I say, amused at the bright spots of red that stain her cheeks.



She looks away. “I am sorry—you should have shoved me from the bed or awakened me in some fashion.”



“I did not say it disturbed me, only that you did it.”



She does not know what to say to this, so she leaps out of bed, curtsies, then hurries to fetch my chamber robe.



Just as she is about to help me into it, Jamette enters the room babbling like a brook. “Barons Vienne and Julliers were found dead in their chambers this morning—” Her mouth snaps shut when she finds us standing together in nothing but our shifts.



She blinks, her mouth opening then closing as she searches for something to say. Because she annoys me so very much, I reach out, place a finger under Tephanie’s chin, and turn her head gently toward me. “Thank you, Tephanie,” I say. “For everything.” Tephanie’s cheeks turn a dull red, and I almost laugh and spoil the effect I have so carefully created.



Poor Jamette cannot decide if she is shocked or jealous. “So, who are these barons whose chambers you visited last night?” I ask languorously.



“Not me,” she snaps. “It was the servants who reported they died of the plague in their sleep.”



“Could you bring the water? I’d like to wash now,” I say with a sleepy yawn.



“Do you think we will catch it?” Tephanie asks. “The plague, I mean?”



The look Jamette sends Tephanie is so full of venom I am surprised the other girl does not wilt on the spot. She does look acutely embarrassed, however, and hurries away to finish dressing in the privacy of the garderobe.



Jamette’s temper makes her careless, and she splashes water everywhere. “Watch what you are doing,” I warn her. “Else I will have you clean it up with that sharp tongue of yours.”



Our eyes meet, and I can see all the insults and accusations she wishes to hurl at me. Instead of saying them, she mutters to herself, “At least now I know why she ignores the few men who cast their attention her way.”



I run my finger along Jamette’s arm. “Do not tell me you are jealous, little one?” I have found an entirely new way to get under Jamette’s skin and anticipate hours of fine sport.



She pulls her arm away. “Of course not!” She turns and moves across the room to the clothespress. “Which gown do you want today?”



“The dark gray satin with the black underskirt.”



She helps me dress, but her movements are stiff, and she touches me as little as possible. When she laces up my bodice, she pulls so hard she nearly cracks my ribs.



I jerk away and grab her hand. “Careful. Your duties are to attend me, not cause me bodily damage.”



She glares at me, and I can feel her temper humming in her veins. Tephanie chooses that moment to come stumbling back into the room, slipping her belt into place and affixing to it the small knife I gave her.