Dark Triumph - LaFevers Robin - Страница 24

The jailor gives me a nod as if to say You’re welcome—even though I have not said thank you—then motions for me to get moving, as if it is he who is leading this rescue.

I tamp down my irritation, and we both hurry back to where the knight leans against the wall. His eyes are closed, and his face is bleached white by his efforts to get this far. I cannot tell if his battle fever has left him or if it still simmers quietly in his veins. Pray Mortain the latter, else we will never get him across the bridge.

Even so, now that his mind is no longer clouded, it is the best time to give him my message. “Listen to me, for this is important. When you get to Rennes, you must get word to the duchess. D’Albret has men inside the city’s walls, men who will open the gates to him when the time comes. Can you remember to tell her that?”

Merde! I cannot tell if he nods in agreement or if his head is simply lolling to the side. Frustrated, I turn to the gargoyle. “Did you get all that?” He nods and I sigh. It will have to do.

I adjust the massive arm around my shoulders, then begin the long torturous journey across the courtyard. At the bridge, the knight pulls his arm off me and uses the side of the bridge as a crutch. I do not argue with him but instead slip ahead to be sure the promised cart is there and to give the driver his instructions and the rest of the payment he was promised.

At first I do not see the wagon, and my heart jolts in dismay, for we cannot coax this man much farther. But when I look again, there it is, tucked deep in the shadows against the city wall, two decrepit-looking mules dozing in their harness. The driver, however, is missing. He must have decided that half the promised payment was better than the entire amount, for at least he’d live long enough to spend it.

I turn back to see the men’s progress across the bridge, but they have paused midway. Do they not realize how closely we have shaved this? We do not have time to stop and admire the scenery. I glance back at the palace windows and see that the light is out in Madame Dinan’s chamber, and renewed urgency fills me. I must get there soon, while he is still tangled in her sheets and distracted.

I rush back to the others. “Hurry! We need to get to the cart before we are seen. New sentries could arrive any moment.”

The jailor looks up at me with his sad little face and shakes his head. He does not think his prisoner can take another step. I glare at him, wishing he would speak so he could be the one to cajole this knight forward. I had not thought it possible to hate myself more than I already did, but the vile things I have called this tortured knight have proven me wrong. “Wake up, you. How dare you sleep while your duchess is in danger?” His eyelids flicker, but that is all. True worry sets in and I must use the most cruel weapon in my arsenal. “They are closing in on her, those men. D’Albret’s men. Do you know what they say about d’Albret? How he treats his women?”

The jailor motions to me—to my face. There is a softness in his gaze that I do not understand. He motions again and I put my hand up to my cheek. It is wet. I glare at him as I scrub the dampness away. “If you cannot be bothered to bestir yourself on her behalf, he will maul her with his rough, hairy hands, violate her flesh—”

With a roar that startles a bray from one of the waiting donkeys, the knight pushes himself from the wall and lurches forward. The little jailor tries to steer his lumbering charge to the cart, but the knight resists, instead lunging toward me. Startled, I look up and our eyes meet. His are a pale, silver blue, I realize, just before his fist connects with my jaw and everything goes black.

Chapter Fifteen

I SLOWLY BECOME AWARE THAT I am dreaming, for I feel as safe and snug as a babe in a cradle. Or perhaps a babe in a boat, bobbing in the sea.

A very bumpy sea, I amend, as a jarring thud rattles my entire body. I try to open my eyes, but it is as if they’ve been sewn shut. When I finally wrench them open, all I can see is a dark sky filled with fading stars.

Where in the names of the Nine Saints am I?

I try to think, shuffling back through my memories like a banker though stacks of coin. The knight. I was getting him to the cart and then . . . what? Filled with a trickle of foreboding, I struggle to sit up. The movement has my stomach roiling like a nest of eels. Just in time, I lean over the side and retch miserably.

When I have finished with that, the throbbing in my head lessens enough that I can begin to make sense of my surroundings. A strong smell of manure fills my nose, making me think of retching again, and I see a jaunty yellow flag flapping in the night breeze.

Frantic, I glance around. The knight lies still and lifeless beside me as we jolt and bump along the road. There are no houses, no shops, no city walls anywhere. There is nothing but gently rolling countryside and farmsteads as far as my eye can see.

I am in the be-damned cart! The knight . . . he hit me. Knocked me out cold with his great ham-shaped fist and, for some reason, he—and the jailor—have brought me with them.

No. No! I look around once again to try to get my bearings. How long have I been out? Moments? Hours? More important, how far away are we from Nantes? Perhaps it is not too late to go back.

But no matter how hard I squint and peer, I cannot see the walls of the city. Which means all my plans—and my hard-won resolve—have turned to ash. The giant ogre beside me has given Fortune’s wheel such a hard turn that it has spun out of my grasp entirely.

The prisoner next to me does not so much as stir at the vile oath that flies from my mouth, but the jailor, who is driving, looks over his shoulder and tips his cap. That cheerful gesture infuriates me further and I scramble to my feet, ignoring the wave of nausea that follows. As we hit a bump in the road, I nearly tumble out. Grabbing the back of the bench, I clamber gracelessly into the front next to the jailor, then wait for the dizziness to pass before I begin railing at him. “What have you done?” I finally manage to get out. “I was not supposed to come with you! You have ruined everything!”

The little gnome shrugs and points his thumb at the unconscious knight.

I glance at the hulking form laid out in the wagon bed. How dare he? What addlepated thought crossed his fevered brain and caused him to bring me with them? I want to leap into the back of the cart and pound my frustration out on his thick, misbegotten hide. Instead, I curl my hands into fists, press my nails into my palms, and hope the pain of it will clear my head. To have been denied my desire to wreak vengeance upon d’Albret for so long, only to have it snatched away when it is finally in my grasp, is nearly unbearable. It is all I can do not to put my head back and roar out my fury at God and all His saints.

Then suddenly, like a kettle boiled dry, my anger is gone and I am left feeling as empty and hollow as a drum. My one chance, the one I have waited months—no, years!—for, has been irrevocably lost. Never again will I be in such a position to exact vengeance on d’Albret.

Never again. The words rattle around in my head like two stones in a bucket.

But that also means I cannot go back—cannot be sent back—for even the cold-hearted abbess will recognize how impossible it would be for me to earn d’Albret’s trust again.

Which means . . . I have escaped.

I try to think. In all my seventeen years, have I ever known anything—anyone—to escape d’Albret? Not his wives, nor his children, nor his enemies. Only the duchess, and she did so twice, once in Guerande and the second time almost a fortnight ago.

While it makes sense that the gods would bestir themselves for the duchess, I cannot believe they would bestir themselves for me. They never have before.