Jean Runnion’s door.
Use the tools and opportunities Mortain places in front of you. It is one of the first lessons we learn at the convent. “Is that for Monsieur Runnion?” I call out.
Startled, the maid turns her head. “Yes. He asked for his dinner to be served in his room.”
As well he might. He has good reason to stay hidden. Bretons have long memories where traitors are concerned, and we do not forgive easily. I hurry forward. “I will take the tray to him,” I offer. “He is in a foul mood tonight.”
The maid is suspicious and frowns at me. “How do you know this?”
I give her a cold smile. “Because his man warned me of such when he came to fetch me for the evening.”
A look of contempt appears on her face. I am torn between pride that she finds my pretense believable and annoyance that she thinks me a harlot. It is exactly as Sister Beatriz said it would be: People hear and see what they expect to hear and see. But just because we have been trained to use that to our advantage does not mean I like it.
The maid shoves the tray into my hands and I have to grab quickly to keep it from tumbling to the ground.
with one last swish of her skirts, she clatters down the stairs, leaving me alone with only a thick oaken door between me and my first assignment.
Three years of lessons crowd my head at once, bumping into each other like an unsettled flock of pigeons. I remind myself that there is nothing to fear. I mixed the poison with my own hand. It contains a slow-acting toxin, one especially chosen so that I will be far away before the traitor dies, giving me enough time to escape should something go wrong. To everyone else, it will merely appear as if he is in a deep, wine-sodden sleep.
But nothing will go wrong, I tell myself. Shifting the weight of the tray, I rap on the door. “Your dinner, monsieur.”
"Entré” comes the muffled voice.
I open the door, then juggle the tray again so I can close it firmly behind me. Runnion doesn’t even look up. He is sprawled in a chair in front of the fire, drinking from a cup of wine. A jug sits on the floor next to him. “Just put it on the table,” he instructs.
The years have not been kind to him. His face is deeply lined and his hair lank and gray. Indeed, he looks almost ill, as if his guilty conscience has eaten away at his soul.
If so, I am surely about to do him a favor. I set the tray down. "Would monsieur like me to refill his cup before I go?” I ask.
“Yes. Then leave,” he commands. His dismissive manner makes me even happier that he will not be able to order anyone else around after tonight.
As I move toward his chair, I lift a hand to the finely woven net around my hair and slip one of the pearls from it. I bend over to pick up the wine jug, pausing to look at his face. There is a great dark smudge around his lips, as if Mortain has pressed His thumb into the blackness of the man’s soul and smeared it along his mouth to say, Here, this is how he will die.
Thus reassured, I slip the pearl into the wine, swirl the jug twice, then pick up Runnion’s cup and fill it.
I hand it to him, and he takes a sip, then another. As I watch, Runnion looks up from his cup and scowls at me. "Where is the other girl?”
I have overstayed my welcome. “She was busy downstairs and asked me to come.”
even as his bleary eyes move to my traveling cloak, I begin heading toward the door. I want to be away from here before his wine-soaked mind begins to draw any conclusions.
"Wait!” he calls out, and I freeze, my heart beating wildly in my chest.
“Leave the jug,” he orders.
I look down and see that I still carry the wine jug in my hand. Careless! “But of course, monsieur,” I say, then set the jug on the floor next to him. I risk another glance from under my lashes, but he’s turned back to the fire.
At the door, I pause one last time, waiting until he takes another sip of wine, then another. I cross myself and bow my head, commending the traitor’s soul into Mortain’s keeping. As I reach for the door, it bursts open. A large form stands there, outlined by the torchlight from the hallway. His hood is still pulled up close around his face, but I recognize the hulking figure of Hervé.
Merde! Could he not have waited till I went back downstairs?
I step away from the door and throw a look over my shoulder to gauge the distance to the window. Hervé follows my gaze and swears when he sees Runnion, who looks as if he has passed out in a wine-sodden stupor. while Hervé rushes to Runnion’s side, I take the opportunity Mortain has provided me and bolt for the window.
It is a long ride back to the convent, but my sense of triumph keeps me warm. I want to crow to the heavens that I have served my god and my convent well, but Sister Serafina has told me many times that pride is a sin, and so I do not.