Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin - Страница 18
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“How may we serve you, my lady?” The smith’s cold, distant voice is at odds with his words.
“I have a belt that has broken a link, but it is of gold. Do you work in gold?”
“I do,” he says slowly, as if reluctant to admit such a thing if it will cause me to tarry at his shop.
The woman is less reluctant. “Gold is too valuable to put on display, my lady, but my husband’s skill is equal to any smith’s in the city.” The sure, quiet pride with which she says this moves me in some way I cannot explain.
The smith, however, sends her an aggrieved look, and that is when I know he wishes we would go elsewhere. Which makes him imminently suitable for the job I have in mind. “May I see the work, then?” I ask.
“Certainly, my lady. Let me fetch a tray.”
I hold up a hand. “Wait. I wish to see the work area before I decide. I will not leave my valuables in a pigsty.”
The good wife bristles at this, but opens the half door to the workroom and curtsies.
“I will be right back,” I tell the others.
The smith and I move to the farthest workbench, and the wife excuses herself to fetch a tray of her husband’s best work. I hand the man my belt. As his practiced eye and sure hands move over the piece, probing it for weak links or breaks, I maneuver myself so that I am standing with my body blocking what we are doing. The smith frowns up at me. “There is nothing wrong with—”
“Shhh,” I say quietly. I step closer to him, as if I am looking at something he is showing me. “That is not my true commission for you. I have a key that needs copying.” I slip the velvet pouch out of the larger purse at my belt and hand the small blocks of wax to him. Keeping one eye on me, he opens the pouch to see the impressions of the key. “My lady, I am no blacksmith—”
I smile and say sharply, “Do you not think I can read the sign above your shop? This key is a gift for someone. Someone special.” I smile coyly so that his mind goes precisely where I want it to. He frowns in disapproval and opens his mouth to refuse, but I pull a second, smaller pouch from my purse. “I will make the job—and your silence—worth your while.”
Just then, his wife comes back with a tray of finely worked gold belts, circlets, intricately carved cups, and paternosters. When she sees the bag, her face lights up. I hand her the pouch before the smith can refuse the job, knowing that once she closes her hand around those coins, she, like any good housewife, will not let them go.
“Oh, and one other thing,” I say, as if just remembering.
The smith looks at me, clearly vexed and wishing I would take myself far away from him and his shop. “I will be back in three hours for the . . . belt.”
“My lady!” he protests. “That is not nearly enough time.”
“Ah, but you will make the time, will you not?” Our gazes meet.
“But of course, my lady. I will make the time.”
We spend the rest of the day wandering around the shops of Nantes. Jamette buys a rose-colored ribbon and a gold-braided cord for her hair, a cord I cannot help but daydream of strangling her with. Tephanie looks at everything with hungry eyes, like a starved child, and I end up buying her a pretty comb for her hair. I assure myself it is only to make Jamette jealous.
Three hours later, the bells of Nantes cathedral call everyone to afternoon prayers. Even Jamette has worn out her penchant for shopping, and the guards’ eyes are rolling back in their heads from boredom, so we return to the silversmith’s.
He and his wife are waiting for us, and the look she gives me now is full of censure and reserve. The smith says nothing, no doubt counting the minutes until he can be rid of me. Once again, I am careful to stand with my body blocking the view of his workbench. “Is my belt ready?” I ask in a bright voice.
“Just as you asked, my lady.” He gives me the small velvet pouch at the same time he gives me the belt. The pouch is still warm from the hot metal of the newly made key. As I take them from his hand, my fingers grasp his. I pause. “If you speak of this to anyone, my life—and yours—will not be worth the ashes in your hearth.”
His eyes meet mine and then turn away. “And well I know it,” he mutters. “For that is no bedroom key.” He starts to pull his hand back, but I grip it tighter.
I do not know why, but I am filled with an urgent need to have this simple, honest man know that I am capable of decency. “Not everyone in the palace supports the baron.” I let all my artifice fall away so he may see the truth behind my words.
He studies me carefully a moment, then nods once in understanding.
“Thank you.” I give him a genuine smile this time and squeeze his hand. He blinks. “I will not jeopardize you or your family again, I swear it.”
Relief washes over his face, and I slip the key into the purse at my waist and leave.
Chapter Eleven
D’ALBRET AND HIS MEN HAVE not yet returned from Ancenis when we retire for the evening. I wait for what feels like an eternity for Jamette and Tephanie to undress me and prepare me for bed. The fact that Jamette chatters like a nervous magpie does not help the time go by quicker. At long last, they finish their fussing and take their leave.
When I am finally alone, I go to my chest and look among my few poisons for one that is both swift and merciful, but I have none. Some are gentle but work slowly, and those that work quickly, cause too much pain and discomfort to be used for a merciful killing.
Instead, I remove my favorite knife and a sharpening stone, then go sit by the fire and begin sharpening the blade. I still do not know if the prisoner can sit a horse, or ride one, or if he is even conscious. If he is not, he will be of no use to the duchess. Not unless she can use his dead, martyred body to incite loyalists to take up arms.
He will not be marqued, but I no longer care about that.
It used to scare me, the idea of killing without a marque from Mortain to guide my hand, but now, stepping outside His grace holds no more fear for me. Especially since what little I know of that grace has been harsh. My biggest fear has always been that once I began killing at my own whim rather than Mortain’s, I would become no better than d’Albret. But over the past few days, I have begun to wonder if being the daughter of Death is any different than being the daughter of a cruel, sadistic murderer. There is little enough difference that I can see, so better to make my own choice in this, the one I think will do the most good.
The nuns’ warnings for the fate of my soul rise once more in my mind, but what the fool nuns did not realize is that my life is already a living hell, so trading one form for another is not so great a deterrent.
When a full hour has passed, I dress and collect the supplies I have selected. In addition to the night whispers and the newly sharpened knife, I arm myself with two other knives and a garrote bracelet as well as my lethal crucifix. If the knight must die tonight, then I will go immediately from the dungeon to d’Albret’s chamber, where it will be easy enough to gain access with him gone. Once there, I will simply lie in wait for him. Even he must sleep sometime. And when he does, I’ll make my move.
I will most likely not survive the attempt, but at least I will have tried, and surely that will prove that the darkness that lives in him does not live in me.
It is not the sort of escape I have prayed for, but it is an escape.
When I reach my door I pause just long enough to feel a faint throb of a heart beating steadily on the other side. Is it Jamette with her constant spying? Or some new guard my father has posted?
I quickly prepare a half a dozen lies and excuses, then open the door.
It is Tephanie. She is rolled up tightly in her cloak, like a sausage in its casing, sleeping outside my door.
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