“The servants were the most loyal. They had known and served you since you were a babe. Allixis Baron, your comptroller; Guillaume Moulner, the silversmith; Jehane le Troisne, the apothecary; Pierre the porter; Thomas the doorkeeper; a laundress; a full dozen archers of the guard; your master of the pantry; the cook; two cupbearers; and a full half of the palace guard. They all died with your name on their lips and honor in their hearts.”

Her eyes are bright with tears and I am struck again that she is but thirteen years old. Younger than I was when I first arrived at the convent.

No, I was never that young.

I say the only thing I can think of to comfort her, and in the end, it is not much comfort at all. “The traitors Julliers, Vienne, and Mathurin are dead, Your Grace. They have paid the ultimate price for their crimes.”

She looks up, her eyes gleaming fiercely. “Good,” she says. “If Mortain would bid you kill all the traitors in such a way, I would be most pleased.”

She thinks I killed them all at Mortain’s command. I do not explain that one was done in by my own twisted brother’s jealousy.

The abbess suggests I masquerade as a whore to look for the saboteurs, but Captain Dunois, for all his gruffness, has a chivalrous heart. He will not hear of it. He suggests I disguise myself as a laundress instead and points out, reasonably enough, that a laundress has an equally legitimate excuse for mingling with the soldiers. Besides, many of them traffic in both laundry and favors, so if needs must, I can play the whore in a pinch.

The abbess counts it one more mark against me that Captain Dunois opposes her plan, but it was not my doing.

I lean in close to the silvered mirror and apply small, thin strokes of charcoal to my eyebrows, making them thick and shapeless. Next I take an even smaller piece and create lines of fatigue on my face, after which I put a faint smudge of coal dust under my eyes so I will look exhausted from my toil. I finish the transformation with a smear of black wax on my teeth. In truth, I cannot wait to be someone else for a while, even a poor, drab laundress. Someone who does not leave pain and betrayal and heartache in her wake. Of course, the opportunity to thwart d’Albret is equally welcome.

I take a handful of ashes from the fire and rub them into my hair, making it a shade or two lighter and much coarser-looking. It was my hands that presented the biggest challenge, for even with my recent work with the poultices, they were smoother and softer than a laundress’s should be. To correct that, I soaked them in a strong lye soap solution for nearly two hours. Now they are red and raw and chapped, and they sting accordingly. I am most pleased with my disguise.

“No one will ever recognize you,” Ismae says from where she sits on the bed.

“That is the point,” I say wryly.

“Even so, the transformation is more thorough that anyone could have hoped.” She rises and brings me the linen coif for my hair. It is old and worn out, but far too clean, so I make her dirty it in ashes from the hearth. When that is done, she places it on my head and helps me tuck my hair up under it. “There.” She steps away to see the full effect. Worry creases her brow. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“I have nearly a half a dozen blades under my washerwoman gown.” Two strapped at my waist, one on each thigh, and yet another hidden along my back. I feel nearly naked without knives at my wrist, but soldiers can be a grabby lot and I cannot risk them discovering thick, solid steel. “I am ready,” I tell her.

She takes a step toward me, hands clasped in front of her. “Have a care for yourself,” she pleads.

Touched by her concern, for she is one of the few who genuinely care about me, I give her a quick hug. “I will be, but remember, these are but d’Albret’s men, not d’Albret himself. They will be no match for me.”

Somewhat reassured, she smiles. “Very well, then. Let us go find Captain Dunois.”

We find the captain waiting for me in the main hallway. Duval and the abbess are with him. I am torn between pride at showing the abbess how well I can do this task and not wishing to expose myself or my talents to any more of her plots and intrigues.

“Sweet Jesu,” the good captain mutters. “I would never have recognized you.”

Dunois had wanted to escort me on the search himself, but it would have called far too much attention to my presence. Instead, he has handed the assignment off to the commander of Rennes, Michault Thabor, and a few of his most trusted men.

I place perhaps less trust in them than he does, but it is the best we can do under the circumstances.

And then it is time to go. My heart beats with anticipation, and the thrill of a new adventure tingles through my limbs. Feeling saucy, I turn to the abbess. “Will you not invoke Mortain’s blessings on our venture, Reverend Mother?” While I ask it of her out of spite, I realize I would like His blessing, for all that He and I are at odds with each other right now.

Her nostrils flare in irritation, but she bows her head and places a hand on my coifed hair. “May Mortain guide you and keep you in His dark embrace,” she intones, then removes her hand quickly. Even so, I feel somewhat calmer, as if Mortain has somehow heard her in spite of her ill grace.

We leave the palace through the servants’ quarters, but since it is late and most are abed, our passing goes unnoticed.

Outside, a disreputable-looking donkey awaits with two baskets, one on either side. They are even filled with laundry.

Commander Thabor speaks to me in a low voice. “We have identified all the vulnerable spots in the city: the gate towers, the sally ports, the bridges, the cistern, and the gates along the river.”

“Excellent. What of the patrols?”

“We have doubled the watch along the city walls and increased the number of patrols at their base.”

“Where do you suggest we begin?” I ask.

“The east gate, then we will work our way around to the other gates.”

“Very well. Lead on.”

Thabor nods and walks purposefully ahead while his men scatter out so that it will not appear as if we are together. It would not do for me to be seen with them, for what business would the captain of the city guard have with a laundress? I know it is supposed to give me comfort, being followed by the guards, but it makes the skin between my shoulders twitch, which I force myself to ignore.

The city streets are quiet, as all smart or respectable citizens closed their doors and shutters and took to their beds long ago. As we move through streets full of houses leaning drunkenly against one another, the clop-clopping of the donkeys’ hooves echoes off the cobblestones and sounds loud to my ears. However, if people hear us, they just snuggle deeper in their beds or ensure their doors are latched.

The buildings become smaller and seedier as we move farther away from the palace area. Meager shops and small taverns are interspersed among these smaller houses, and the streets are louder. At last we reach the military road that runs along the city wall. No one but soldiers should be on this road at this time of night. We pass three small watchtowers before we finally come to the east gatehouse. Commander Thabor walks past as if hurrying on some business of his own, but he will find some shadow in which to wait for me.

Still leading the donkey, I walk up to the gatehouse and halt just outside the door. The sound of murmuring voices reaches me, as the men on watch amuse themselves by telling stories. I hoist one of the baskets from the donkey’s back, settle it on my hip, then head for the door. The guard on duty watches my approach with lazy eyes. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I am looking for Pierre de Foix.” It is the name of a soldier who has taken ill with the flux and is even now abed in the infirmary. He will most definitely not be on duty.