Dark Triumph

“He is not here, so you may be on your way.”

My eyes snap with irritation—I do not even have to pretend—and I swat the basket of laundry in a

“Honest work,” the guard scoffs.

Like a fishwife, I am merciless. “He told me he was to be on duty this night at this post. Why would he lie to me unless he was trying to cheat me? I will report him to your captain.”

Before I can continue, the guard reaches out, grabs my free arm, and pulls me close. “Do not call me a liar, wench, else I will have to punish you. Here. Look.” With that he pushes me through the gatehouse door and holds me there. “See with your own eyes that the man you seek is not here, then be gone.”

Praying that Thabor’s men will remain in their positions and not do something foolish, I quickly glance at the small group of men. There are five of them, and none are familiar to me. A sixth man turns from the small brazier in the room and grabs his crotch in a rude gesture. “I have something you can wash for me, eh?”

For a brief moment, everything inside me stills. The hair on the man’s head is as brown as a walnut, but his beard is red, and I recognize him as Reynaud, one of my father’s men. Quickly, I toss my head and turn for the door so that he will not be able to see my face. “I do not do small pieces, only large,” I call over my shoulder. That sets the room to guffawing, and I use the opportunity to step beyond the sentry’s reach and back into the night where the cover of darkness will further obscure my features. “He is probably hiding somewhere,” I mutter with ill grace.

The sentry puts a hand to his sword, but I move quickly away. As I do, I see two dark shapes—my guards—step back into the shadows.

I return to the donkey—grumbling just loud enough that the posted guard can hear me—and replace the basket on the donkey’s back. It is not until we have moved into the next street that Commander Thabor appears at my side. “What happened there? Why did he grab you?”

“He thought I was calling him a liar. Which I was,” I say with a smile. “But he let me in to see, so it was worth it.”

“Have a care,” he growls at me, “as I am personally responsible for your safety.”

“Reynaud. I do not know if that is the name he is using here in Re

The water tower has a smaller garrison inside. Only four soldiers this time, one of whom offers to buy Pierre’s abandoned laundry, but none of them are d’Albret’s men.

And thus the night goes, with me moving from one gatehouse to the next. Some with a dozen men, others with only four. But none of them with any more potential saboteurs. Bleak discouragement fills me, for if there is one man, I know in my bones there must be others. And I need to find them so we will not feel like sitting ducks waiting for d’Albret to spring his accursed trap.

We have patrolled only the towers on the east side of the city, but already the sky has begun to lighten. My disguise will not hold in broad daylight. With reluctance, I allow Commander Thabor to turn us around so we may begin heading back to the palace. “Do not look so discouraged,” he tells me. “We found one. We will find the others.”

“Yes, but I would prefer to find them sooner rather than later.” Just then a man bursts out of a nearby door, startling my donkey and causing the soldiers to reach for their swords. But it is just a drunken stoneworker, stumbling his way home. I stop. But of course. “I wish to go inside,” I tell Thabor. “For if the men I seek are not on duty, they will most likely be found in a tavern or wine shop.”

“Those were not my orders,” he says tightly.

“Your orders were to accompany me while I flushed out the traitors in our midst. I am not asking your permission, Commander, but telling you what I intend to do.” Our gazes hold for a long tense moment, and I ca

Finally, he nods. “But one of us will accompany you.”

I long to argue, but I am ru

He glances at his commander again, and the mute appeal in his gaze makes me want to slap him. Does he not realize how many men have begged me for just such an opportunity as he is being handed? I grab his arm, tuck it into mine, and begin steering us sloppily toward the tavern door.

The tavern is nearly empty at this hour; only the dregs of its customers remain. Three men slump on tables, barely holding themselves up as they sip the last of the wine from their cups. Another man sits in a corner fondling a serving maid, who is dozing in his lap. A half dozen men squat by the light of the dying fire, dicing.

I take all this in as I lean heavily on Venois and stumble us both toward a bench. Venois is stiff, and I can only hope anyone sober enough to notice will assume it is his military bearing rather than unease. A harsh shout goes up among the dicing men, and I softly jab him in the ribs. “Slouch a bit,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. “And shuffle your feet, then call loudly for wine.”

He does as I command, and an a

The dicing men are my last hope to make something of the evening. I wait for the serving maid to set our wine down before us, then take a big gulp. It is watered and sour and it is all I can do not to spit it out. Instead, I force myself to swallow, then lean toward Venois. “Do you dice?”

The soldier shrugs, then downs half his wine. “Upon occasion. But mostly, I try not to.”

I wait half a beat, but he does not volunteer. Just as I open my mouth to tell him he must join the men in front of the fire, another shout goes up among them, this time accompanied by the ring of steel.

A quarrel has broken out, and my heart soars when I recognize Huon le Grande, who is nearly as large as d’Albret himself and possibly just as unpleasant. The man waving his sword at the other two, the one with the wispy beard and a large nose and only three fingers on his left hand, is Ypres. Next to him is Gilot, short and squat and mean as a wounded badger. I nearly laugh with pleasure that they are too stupid to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

I drape myself over Venois and pretend I am nuzzling his ear. “Three of the dicers are the men we seek.”

That seems to perk him up somewhat, and he plays his part with more gusto, if not more skill, as I point out which of the men are d’Albret’s.

But the night is nearly over, and the tavern keeper’s a large, hard-fisted man who kicks all of d’Albret’s men out before they can ruin his establishment. He kicks the rest of us out too, just for good measure. I am in infinite danger as I stumble out the tavern door practically on d’Albret’s men’s heels, but my disguise holds, and their gazes are bleary with drink. Venois keeps one firm hand on my elbow and the other on his own sword, giving the rowdy men no chance for an advantage. It is with a light heart that I describe them to Thabor and then watch as three of the captain’s men slink off into the darkness to keep watch over the saboteurs.