Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(53)
Author: Robin LaFevers

The duchess has gone white as a corpse. When she lifts her hand to her temple, I see that it is trembling. “My poor people,” she whispers. “All those deaths are on my conscience.”

“No,” snaps Duval. “They are on d’Albret’s conscience, not yours.”

Jean de Chalon speaks for the first time. “Such ruthlessness can be a great asset when it is wielded for one’s own side. Given his ruthlessness and how much the French fear an alliance between you and the count, perhaps that alliance is your best hope for keeping the duchy independent.”

The duchess appears to shrink in on herself, looking smaller and younger. “How wrong is it of me to expect my people to suffer so that I will not have to? I cannot let such violence and death spill over into the entire kingdom just so I can avoid an unpleasant marriage.”

“No!” Duval, Beast, and I all shout at once. There is a moment of awkward silence and I stare at my hands while Duval continues. “You will not marry that brute.”

“You are speaking as a loving brother, Duval, not as a clear-eyed councilor,” the bishop points out. “Perhaps that is our best course of action.”

I want to grab all these men by the shoulders, shake them until their teeth rattle, then ask them how they can be so cursedly blind. A rumbling begins building deep inside me, outrage that these men would so willingly consign this girl to a man such as d’Albret. It is just as it ever was: men of power are unwilling to believe anything ill of their own kind.

Suddenly, the weight of my own secrets nearly chokes me. If ever there was a reason to break the long years of silence, this is it—to prevent this innocent girl from becoming one of d’Albret’s newest victims. To prevent such a monster from becoming ruler of the entire kingdom.

I am so desperate for them to understand the evil nature of this man that I do the unthinkable: I open my mouth and spill the secrets that I have kept for years. “Have you ever asked yourselves what became of the count’s wives?” My throat tightens, as if my body is refusing to utter the words it has kept guarded and locked all this time. The knowledge I share will also raise questions, questions I’d rather not answer in front of Beast. But I cannot keep my secrets if the cost is the young woman before me.

“D’Albret is not just ruthless in battle and merciless in victory. He is a true monster.” I must reach deep for the next words, for they are buried far beneath the surface of daily thought. Indeed, some of the memories remain locked away even from me. “D’Albret murdered all six of his former wives. Surely you would not consign your own duchess to such a fate.”

In the long moment of silence that follows, the shock of what I have just done runs through my body. I am hot, then cold, then hot again. I half believe that d’Albret will somehow know what I have said, and I must remind myself that he is twenty leagues away.

By the grim look on Duval’s face, I see that he at least believes me. But not the others. Their faces are full of incredulity. Chancellor Montauban speaks. “It could be that his actions have been misinterpreted or misunderstood and these are but disgruntled rumors started by those who have suffered defeat at d’Albret’s hands.”

When I answer, my voice is colder than the winter sea. “I am an assassin trained, my lord Chancellor. Not a simpering maid who quails at talk of war.” I consider having them ask Beast, for he will verify the truth of what I say, but it is not my secret to tell. I risk a glance at him and see that he is staring down at his clenched fists.

“I believe what she says is true,” he says at last. “The count no doubt intends grave personal harm to the duchess—if not immediately, then soon after they are wed.”

Dunois rises to his feet and begins to pace. “It is hard for me to believe such despicable accusations of a man who has guarded my back and fought bravely at my side. He has always fought with honor.”

Chalon nods in agreement. “What you are accusing him of goes against every code of honor and chivalry we hold dear.”

“That you hold dear, not d’Albret,” I point out. “Besides, are you so very certain of his honor in battle? Have you never questioned why he and his troops arrived too late at the battle of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier? Because that was not an accident, I assure you.”

“I knew it!” Duval mutters under his breath. The duchess reaches out and places a small hand on his arm to calm him. Or perhaps she is clutching him for support. I cannot be certain.

But it is the bishop whom I have offended the most with my accusations. “If this is true, why have we not heard of it? Why should we believe you? Do you have any proof? In the name of Christ, girl, his brother is a cardinal!”

I glance briefly at the abbess then. “I have long been in his household and know far too well the nature of the man.”

The bishop presses. “Then why have you not come forward sooner?”

A wave of helplessness and futility washes over me, but before I can begin a new round of arguments, the abbess’s cool voice falls into the room like grace. “Gentlemen, you may rest assured that Lady Sybella has spoken the truth.”

I am both surprised and grateful at this unexpected defense. Just as relief begins to unfurl inside me, she addresses them all again.

“Sybella is d’Albret’s own daughter and knows whereof she speaks.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I AM SO STUNNED THAT I can barely breathe. I could not be more surprised—or stricken—if the abbess had reached out and ripped the skin from my bones.

I would certainly feel just as raw and exposed. Indeed, it is all I can do to keep from leaping to my feet and running from the room as every eye turns on me. Is that a new glint of caution I see in Captain Dunois’s gaze? A faint look of revulsion in Chancellor Montauban’s? The bishop merely looks outraged, as if someone has disordered his carefully constructed world simply to spite him. Chalon’s face is also interesting, for it is a carefully shuttered mask, and it is clear his interest has sharpened.

But it is Beast’s gaze that feels the most like a blow.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. If I do not look, I will not have to see the disgust and loathing that now rises from him like steam from a boiling kettle.

And Ismae. What is she feeling right now? For I have known her the longest and have never breathed a word of my lineage. I stare straight ahead and tap my foot, as if I am bored.

The first to speak is Ismae. “Excuse me, Reverend Mother, but is Sybella not Mortain’s daughter, rather than d’Albret’s?”