Eight
“What’s that one, Beau?” the little boy asked, pointing up at the night sky.
They were huddled together in a haystack trying to sleep, but the night was chilly, their bellies were empty, and sleep wouldn’t come.
“That’s Hercules, Matti,” Beau replied. “One of the gods.”
“Did the gods make the stars?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“What’s that one?”
“Ursa Major. The great bear.”
Their father had taught him the names of the constellations. A long time ago.
“What about that one there?” Matti asked, tracing the outline with his finger.
“That’s the bear’s tail. Some people call it the Wagon. Or the Big Dipper.”
“What does the Big Dipper hold?”
“I don’t know. Darkness, I guess.”
“No.”
“No?”
“It holds good things, Beau. And one day the gods will pour them down on us.”
Beau turned his head and looked at his little brother, struck by the fierceness in his voice. “What things, Matti?”
Matti turned his head and looked at Beau. “Gold coins with chocolate inside them. Oranges. Sugared almonds. And jam.”
“Jam?”Beau said, with a laugh.
Matti nodded solemnly. He was always solemn. It worried Beau. He tried to lighten the boy’s spirits.
“We’re going to be a sticky mess if the gods pour jam all over us, don’t you think?”
Matti giggled, but then he turned serious again and his gaze drifted back to the night sky. “One day, good things will pour down on us, Beau. And then we won’t be hungry and cold ever again. You’ll see.”
Beau pulled his little brother closer, trying to keep him warm. He wanted to tell him he would have good things one day, that he—Beau—would make sure of it, but he couldn’t; the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him. He followed Matti’s gaze and saw clouds move across the stars. He heard bells tolling. Or was it clock chimes? A sense of dread engulfed him. There was something he needed to do, somewhere he needed to be. What was it?
Matti was saying something to him, but he couldn’t understand him. His voice sounded far away. He tugged Beau’s ear. Then he slapped his face. Playfully at first, and then a good deal harder. Until Beau’s cheek stung and his teeth rattled.
“Ow!”he said, batting his brother’s hand away. “Cut it out, Matti!”
“My name is Valmont, not Matti,” said a gruff voice. “Rouse yourself, thief.”
Beau’s eyes snapped open. Matti’s sweet face was gone, and a very unsweet face was leaning over him—a face with whiskers, bushy eyebrows, and a nose that looked as if it had been broken once or twice.
“What the hell?” he yelped, throwing himself backward and whacking his head. “Oh. Ow.”
“Get up,” the man said, straightening.
A dizzying sense of unreality gripped Beau. He shook his aching head, trying to clear it, but the motion only made things worse. A greasy wave of nausea washed over him. Too much wine, a voice inside him said. But where? When? His thoughts came as slow and thick as a pour of honey.
Willing his queasiness away, Beau pushed up on his arms and looked at himself. He was dressed except for his jacket and boots, and lying on a narrow wooden bed. There was a headboard behind him and a straw mattress under him. A jug of water and a cup rested on a small table next to the bed. Embers glowed in the room’s tiny fireplace. Sunlight flooded in through the single window. He looked at the man again. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was cut short. He wore a slate-blue jacket, a white shirt, and black britches. At least twenty skeleton keys dangled from the large iron ring he was holding.
“This … this is a servant’s room … you’re a servant … is this your room?” Beau asked. “No, you’re not real. This is a dream. It must be. I’m still asleep.”
He scrubbed at his face with a grimy hand, then winced as his fingers found a large goose egg on his head. The sudden stab of tenderness convinced him that he wasn’t dreaming. Sounds and images rushed at him in a blur—a castle, a feast, a beast. His wits returned, and with them came a hot rush of anger.
“That thing … that monster … itthrew me into a wall!” he said.
“Monster, eh?” the man said. “Did it jump out of a wine bottle?”
Beau realized that he sounded insane. “It came after me … I—I hit my head.”
“That tends to happen when you guzzle alcohol and stumble around in the dark.”
“I wasn’t drunk. My head hurts like hell! There’s a bump …”
The man crossed his brawny arms over his broad chest, smirking. “Want me to kiss it better?”
“Why don’t you kiss my ass?” Beau shot back.
The cheek of this old toe rag. Locking him up. Taunting him. Lying to him. There was a monster. It had chased him. Grabbed him. Nearly killed him. Hadn’t it?
In the cold light of morning, Beau found he had difficulty believing it, too. What he’d thought was a monster had surely only been a man—a guard in a fur cape, or a huntsman—who’d been trying to scare off a pack of thieves. He’d been exhausted from the long ride, frozen from the beating rain, half-starved, too, and then he’d drunk too much and the alcohol had played tricks on him.
“Get up,” the man said. “You’ve been summoned.”
Pride flared in Beau. He was about to tell the man that he was no one’s lackey, thank you, but he bit his tongue. He was a prisoner, it seemed, and pride wouldn’t set him free; cunning would. He sat up all the way and immediately regretted it. His head throbbed. A ragged groan escaped him. He raised his hand to the goose egg again.
“Smarts, does it?” the man asked.
Beau said nothing, but he stopped rubbing his head. The man was no friend, and it wasn’t wise to let a foe see that he was hurting. Wolves only circle the weak, Raphael always said.
Raphael.
The rest of the night crashed back into Beau’s brain like an avalanche. Raphael, Rodrigo, Antonio, the others … they’d abandoned him after the bridge gave way. They’d ridden off without so much as a backward glance, leaving him to become a prisoner. Or a dead man.
Why are you surprised?he asked himself. He knew better than to trust other people, even the ones who called themselves family.
It was the worst thing that could have happened to him, and fear’s icy fingers clawed at his heart, but then a hot rush of exhilaration melted them as he began to see that the worst thing was also the best thing.
He’d never planned to get on a ship in Barcelona with the others. He’d planned to run away. From his thief’s life. From Raphael. He’d planned to ride off one night when the others were asleep. He’d fetch Matti and they’d hole up in some no-name town where no one would ever find them.
He’d tried to leave once. Long ago. But Raphael had caught him. He could still taste the blood in his mouth from the beating, still hear the thief lord’s words as he stood over him. Leave? You’re never leaving, boy. I saved you, remember? Now I own you.
Raphael had saved him. He’d fed him, sheltered him, and taught him, too. Made him one of his gang. Beau would have died on the streets without him. And in return, Raphael had used him. As a lookout at first, then a pickpocket, then an inside man. My help comes with a price,boy, he’d said. Everyone’s does.
Beau reached for his boots and pulled them on. His heart was thumping with excitement. He was almost free. There was bound to be another bridge across the moat or a tunnel under it. All he had to do was wait for his chance, then run.
He shrugged his jacket on. His fingers felt for the ring he’d hidden behind the button; it was still there. Then they dipped into an inside pocket, searching for the letter from Sister Maria-Theresa.
It was gone.
Beau’s heart lurched. He felt in the pocket again, then frantically turned it inside out, but it was empty. He searched his other pockets, but the letter wasn’t in any of them.
He’d still had it on him when he and the others were riding through the woods last night; he remembered it crinkling inside his jacket. Had he lost it when he’d run from the great hall? Or when the bridge had crumbled underneath him? If so, it was at the bottom of the moat.
He hadn’t read it. He had no idea what news it contained. He expected it to say that Matti had gotten better, but what if he hadn’t?
“No,”Beau said under his breath. He would not allow himself to even think that. He would go to Barcelona, letter or no, just as he’d planned. And Matti would be there waiting for him. He would.
“What’s wrong?”
The big, burly man was standing in the doorway, looking at him intently, and Beau realized his feelings were on his face. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, he said, “I’m hungry.”
The man laughed mirthlessly. “An empty belly’s the least of your problems,” he said as he headed out of the room.
Beau buttoned his jacket and followed him. As he stepped across the threshold, he found himself on a landing at the top of a narrow, spiraling stairwell.
The man was already halfway down it. “Hurry up!” he called over his shoulder. “We’re late.”
“Who sent for me? What does he want?” Beau asked as he caught up to him.
“She. Lady Arabella, the mistress of this castle. You’d do well to remember that. And your place.”
Beau bristled at his patronizing tone. “Hey, Fremont … that’s your name, isn’t it? Fremont? Tremont?”
“Valmont.”
“Who’s Lady Arabella? What is this place?”
Valmont tossed him a withering look but said nothing.
The gloomy stairwell led to a gloomy hallway, which led to another stairwell that carried them down into the castle’s armory—a cavernous room with narrow windows and vaulted ceilings.
“This way,” Valmont said, motioning impatiently as Beau eyed the weapons and armor. “The mistress doesn’t have all day. She’s at breakfast and doesn’t linger there long.”
As the words left Valmont’s lips, Beau stopped. He’d spotted a row of shields hanging on a wall, all shining brightly. He walked up to one and regarded himself in its reflection. “So she wants to see me, does she? Well, that’s no surprise,” he said, wiping a smudge of dirt off his cheek.
Valmont stopped, too. He put his hands on his hips. Beau glimpsed him in the shield’s silver gleam and winked. “What female would let this”—he gestured to himself—“go to waste?” He ran his hands through his long dark locks. His fingers found a knot. “Got a comb on you, Monty?”
Valmont glared. “Let’s go.”
“You can’t expect me to go to your mistress looking like this,” Beau said with an insolent grin. “I was thinking about leaving, but maybe I’ll stay. Long enough for her to fall in love with me and make me lord of the manor, just so I can throw your ugly ass out in the cold.”
Valmont took one of his meaty hands in the other and cracked his knuckles. “Walk.”
Beau licked his fingers and smoothed a lock of hair out of his face. He was still grinning as he caught up to Valmont, but as soon as Valmont turned, the smile slid off his face.
It had all been an act—preening and primping, provoking Valmont. Beau hadn’t been gazing at himself in the shield’s reflection; he’d been casing the room, looking for objects of value, escape routes, an advantage. His dagger was gone; he’d felt for it. The only weapon he had now was knowledge. Even the spartan little room where he’d slept had given him a wealth of information. The angle of the sun’s rays pouring in through the window told him the room was on the east side of the castle. The curved walls told him it was in a tower; the long stairwell told him it was a high one. He’d counted the number of steps he’d taken and the number of floors they’d descended so he could retrace his path, even in the dark.
Valmont led Beau out of the armory, down a gallery, through a music room, a study, two sitting rooms, and into the castle’s enormous kitchens. Just as Beau thought they’d never get wherever it was that they were going, they emerged in the great hall.
Raised voices greeted them.
“I interrogated all of them, my lady, every last one.”
Valmont stopped inside the doorway. Beau, who’d stopped a few feet behind him, edged to his side so he could see who was speaking.
“They all say the same thing—they were nowhere near the gatehouse last night.”
The voice belonged to a short, slight, anxious-looking man in a mint-green jacket and tan britches. He was standing by the head of the dining table.
“It would appear, then, that the portcullis raised itself. Is that what you’re saying, Percival?”
That voice, young-sounding but commanding, belonged to a woman. Lady Arabella, Beau guessed. She was sitting in a chair at the end of the table, her back to a crackling fire. Beau couldn’t see her—the man called Percival was blocking his view—but he could hear her words. They were cold and restrained, but anger rushed just below them, like a river under ice.
“I do not know how the miscreant got into the gatehouse to raise the portcullis,” Percival said, shaking his head. “The door is kept locked and the key never leaves my sight. Perhaps the thieves somehow breached the walls? Or crawled into the window above the gatehouse?”
“Or perhaps someone is lying.”
That was a new voice, cold and severe.
Beau craned his neck and saw another woman. She was older and sitting to the younger woman’s right. Her hair, piled high atop her head, was jet black. Her face was deathly pale. Her lips were thin and bloodless. Her dress looked like a fine, heavy silk to Beau, and was well cut, but the color was a dull pewter gray.
Other women sat around the table. They numbered about two dozen. Beau guessed they must be Lady Arabella’s court.
At first glance, they appeared to be eating breakfast, but as his eyes lingered on them, he saw that one was ripping petals off a flower. A second, shockingly thin, was viciously gnawing at a fingernail. A third used her fork to catapult berries at the others, grinning madly as she did. Her face was greasepaint white, like a clown’s, with black-crayon eyebrows, red circles in the centers of her cheeks, and heart-shaped lips.
Beau tried not to stare at them, but their behavior was so strange, he couldn’t help it. It was like trying to not watch a hanging. After a moment he looked past them, eyes searching for the golden clock. It was gone, hidden behind the paneled wall again, but he could hear it ticking.
“We will find out who did it, Percival, and when we do—” the lady in gray began.
The woman ripping the flower apart cut her off. “Someone stole the key, Lady Espidra. How else could he get into the gatehouse?” she said stridently. Beau saw she wore a gown of crimson.
“Surrender it, Percival, you weasel,” said the shockingly thin woman, who was dressed in a gown the color of scraped flesh. “You’re a liar. A sneak. You can’t be trusted.”
“But the key was not out of my sight, Lady Hesma, I swear it!”
Beau could not see Percival’s face, but he could hear the hurt in his voice.
“The key, Percival. Now,” the woman in gray demanded.
Percival’s shoulders sagged. “Very well, Lady Espidra.” He dipped his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a large brass skeleton key, and placed it on the table. Beau’s gaze sharpened; his thief’s fingers twitched. It was a master key; he could tell by the shape. It would open every door in the castle.
As Percival stood there, his head bent, the ladies continued to harangue him, like a flock of crows pecking at a corpse. Valmont cleared his throat noisily, silencing them.
“What is it, Valmont?” Lady Arabella asked, her voice tannic with irritation.
“I’ve brought the visitor, Your Grace.”
“Visitor?”Beau echoed under his breath. Harsh words sprang to his lips, but he bit them back. If he hoped to charm the mistress of the castle into letting him go, pretty words were needed.
And then Percival stepped aside, and Beau saw a young woman, perhaps eighteen years of age, and for the first time in his life, he found he had no words. None at all.
They had fallen away.
Like coins through clumsy fingers.