Captain Dunois taps his finger on his chin. “What are they waiting for? I wonder.”
“For us to break the Treaty of Verger, is all I can surmise,” Duval says. “We have had much acrimony between the French regent and our own politics, but we have honored the dictates of the treaty. At least openly,” he adds with a rakish grin.
“Do you think they know of our negotiations with the Holy Roman emperor?” The duchess’s brow is furrowed with concern.
Duval considers. “Suspect it, yes. But do they know? I do not think that they do. If they had actual knowledge of the betrothal agreement, they would have used that to justify an attack by now.”
“True enough,” Captain Dunois agrees. “I suppose it is too much to hope for that if Count d’Albret decides to march on Rennes, he will run into the French and they will eliminate each other.”
Duval gives a rueful smile. “Would that we were so lucky.” He pauses to look at his hands, then meets his sister’s gaze full on. “It is said that bad news arrives in threes, Your Grace.” Looking as if he could happily commit murder, Duval delivers the final blow. “We have received a letter from Count d’Albret.”
All eyes in the room turn to me. I ignore the sharp sting of their regard and concentrate wholly on Duval and the duchess, as if we are having a private conversation. “Does he know Beast is here?” I ask.
“Not that he indicates. The purpose of the letter was to ask that the duchess reconsider honoring their marriage agreement, else he will be forced to do something she will not like.”
“Besiege the city,” I whisper.
Duval nods. “He does not come out and say so, but that is my assumption as well.”
The duchess, who has gone pale at this news, visibly gathers herself. “What of the Holy Roman emperor? Has he received word of how dire our plight?”
“He has. He will send two auxiliaries to aid us.” Duval’s voice is drier than high summer.
“Two auxiliaries?” Captain Dunois says. “Is he serious? So few, and not even professional soldiers?”
“I’m afraid so. He is also suggesting that we perform the marriage ceremony by proxy in order to get the thing done.”
Jean de Chalon shifts uneasily in his chair; it is his overlord they are speaking of, and perhaps he feels his loyalties are being stretched thin. “I am sure he is doing all that he can. He is much besieged by his war with Hungary.”
Duval does not deign to answer this. The duchess’s mouth tightens in disapproval, but she does not contradict her cousin, although I feel certain she wishes to. “Does a marriage by proxy even count in the eyes of the Church?” she asks the bishop.
“Yes, it can, if done properly.”
“But we still won’t have his troops to defend the alliance,” Captain Dunois points out.
“What of mercenaries? How difficult would it be to get companies of mercenaries here?”
“Not too difficult.” Duval’s voice is gentle, as if he wishes to take the sting from the words that now follow. “What presents a problem, Your Grace, is that we have no money to pay them.”
She looks at him blankly for a moment. “None?” she whispers, then looks to her chancellor.
He confirms Duval’s assessment. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. The duchy’s coffers were greatly strained by the wars with the French over the last two years. The treasury is empty.”
The duchess rises from her chair and begins pacing in front of the fire. She is very nearly out of options, and she must know it. “What of my family’s jewels? The silver plate? The crown—”
The bishop gasps in horror. “Not your crown, Your Grace!”
“Will that bring enough coin to pay them?”
“Your Grace! Some of your jewelry has been in your family for generations,” Chalon says. I cannot help but wonder if he is keeping track of what he would inherit if anything were to happen to the duchess.
“Jewels can be replaced, my cousin. Independence, once lost, cannot.”
The room is silent as the company digests her words, then Beast leans forward to speak for the first time. “There are some who would fight at our side for free,” he tells them.
“Who?” Captain Dunois and Chancellor Montauban ask at the same time.
“The charbonnerie.”
“This is no time for jests,” the chancellor says with reproach.
Beast meets his eyes levelly. “I am not jesting. Furthermore, they have already agreed to fight by our side.”
“They are nothing but outcasts, ruffians who must scrabble in the forest to get by. Do they even know how to hold a sword?” Montauban asks.
“They do not fight by conventional tactics, but with the art of ambush and surprise.”
Chancellor Montauban opens his mouth to argue some more, but Duval interrupts him. “I do not think we are in a position to turn down any offers,” he says. “Beast and I will talk of this later.”
The abbess of Saint Mortain breaks the awkward silence that follows. “What of d’Albret’s men?” It is only years of practice that keeps me from flinching at her words, for while she directs her question to Captain Dunois, I know in my bones it is intended for me. “Have you been able to locate any of the saboteurs?” she asks.
The captain shakes his head. “No, there are so many men-at-arms in the city, all from such scattered parts of the country, and not all are known to me. I have begun to put word out to the garrison commanders to be wary, but there are over eight thousand men-at-arms, and two dozen places where they could help d’Albret’s main force breach our defenses. It will take time.”
Once again, I can feel the immense weight of Beast’s gaze upon me. I do not know if it is that gaze, the abbess’s veiled barbs, or my desire to erase some of d’Albret’s taint from myself, but before thinking it through, I speak. “I could identify them.”
All eyes turn toward me. One gaze in particular feels sharper than broken glass. “You?” the abbess asks.
“Who better?”
The duchess leans forward, her eyes serious. “You do not need to do this. You have already put yourself in far too much danger.”
“My sister is right. Besides, in practical terms, if they saw you, it might tip our hand,” Duval says.
I nod my head in agreement. “But they do not need to see me in order for me to identify them. It is no hard thing to don a disguise.”
Beast speaks for the first time, his voice rumbling into the small room. “I am not certain that is advisable,” he says.
My head snaps up. His dissent is like a kick to my gut, for while I know he is angry with me, I had not realized his newfound distrust would run this deep. “I do not see how we have a choice if we wish to gain the upper hand in this.”
“There is always a choice.” Beast turns from me and addresses the others. “I think this is a bad idea.”
“Do you not think I am capable, my lord?”
His hands grip the arms of his chair so hard that it is a wonder the wood does not splinter. “I know full well you are most capable, my lady. What I do not know is whether the costs would be worth the risks.”
“And what risks would those be, my lord?” My words drip with honeyed sweetness that is as false as it is polite.
He says nothing, but he glowers at me from across the table. The loathing he shows toward me is every bit as painful as I feared. “If you do not trust me—”
“Of course he trusts you, my lady! If not for you, he would still be rotting in some dungeon, or worse.”
“I am so glad that someone remembers,” I mutter. I take a steadying breath, and when I speak again, my voice is calm. “If you do not trust me, or are too worried about the risks, the captain can send whatever men he likes to accompany me. Indeed, the plan will only work if he does, for a man can stay close to the traitors and mark their movements, while I cannot.” Beast and I hold each other’s gazes for a long moment.