Read Chapter 18: The Betrayal

The cold dawn air bit at Claude's lungs as he crested the ridge above the Burgundian camp. Below, tents sprawled in ordered ranks, banners hanging limp in the windless grey. His hands were raw from the sewer climb, his boots caked with the filth of Compiègne's underbelly, but the report burned in his chest—the Armagnac plot, the planned strike on the Duke's supply lines, the names he had gathered in whispered confessions.

He was not a traitor. He would prove it.

Captain de Beauvais met him at the palisade, face drawn and pale beneath the brim of his helm. Behind him, a cluster of soldiers watched with eyes that did not soften at Claude's approach.

"You found my message," Claude said, breath still short. "The glass merchant—did you—"

"The merchant is dead." De Beauvais's voice was flat. "Found with his throat cut three hours after your warning reached me."

Claude stopped. The ground seemed to tilt. "Then the plot—the Duke—"

"The Duke knows everything." De Beauvais's eyes searched his face. "He has known for a day and a half. A full account of the Armagnac designs, the network in Compiègne, the names of every agent in the Spider's web—delivered to his tent by courier." A pause. "The source was your sister."

The words hit like a blade between the ribs. Claude's mouth opened. No sound came.

"She came to the Duke's camp herself," de Beauvais continued, merciless. "Pale as milk, trembling, but she spoke clearly. She named you as a compromised agent. Claimed you had been turned by the French court. That you were the leak in our intelligence." He stepped closer. "She presented evidence. Letters. Movements. Enough to damn you six times over."

"The letters were forgeries," Claude heard himself say. "She—she is the spy. She admitted it. I have proof."

De Beauvais shook his head slowly. "The Duke received her confession at dawn. She gave him the full map of the Spider network in Compiègne. The safe houses. The couriers. The code phrases." His lips pressed thin. "If she meant to deceive us, she chose a strange way to do it. The French are already moving on Compiègne. They advance within the week. Her intelligence was accurate enough to set the whole army into motion."

Claude's stomach turned. Marguerite had used him. Her tears in the chapel, her pleas for Étienne, her claims of being a pawn—it had all been theater. She had wanted him to follow the threads she spun while she slipped past him and delivered her betrayal straight to the Duke's ears.

"She is gone," de Beauvais said. "Fled south before first light. The Duke is not yet certain of your guilt—but he has ordered you confined until the matter is settled."

"I am not—" Claude's voice cracked. "I risked everything to bring him this intelligence. My own sister tried to have me hanged."

De Beauvais's face flickered, something almost like pity crossing his features. "Your sister rode out under a white flag carrying terms of surrender from the Armagnac command. If she is lying, she has committed herself to treason in front of an entire army. If she is telling the truth, you are the most dangerous man in Burgundy."

He gestured, and two soldiers moved to flank Claude.

"Come. The Duke will want to see you."

But Claude's hand went to his belt, where the ring still rested—the ring his sister had given him, the ring that held the engraving of a hidden room beneath the second cistern. The ring that had led him to the archivist, to the truth, to his own sister's lies.

He broke for the treeline.

Someone shouted. Hooves thundered. An arrow hissed past his ear, buried itself in the earth before him, and he stumbled but did not stop. The forest swallowed him, branches raking his face, his breath a ragged fire in his throat.

Behind him, the camp erupted in pursuit.

He ran until his legs gave out, collapsing against the root of an ancient oak deep in the wood. His hands trembled. His mind raced.

He could return to the camp. submit to the Duke's judgment. Die a traitor's death on his sister's word.

Or he could find her.

The French army was advancing on Compiègne. Marguerite was racing ahead of it, carrying the Duke's confidence in her pocket like a stolen jewel. If he could catch her—force the truth from her lips—produce evidence of her deception before the Duke's tribunal—

But to leave the camp now was to abandon his mission entirely. To mark himself a fugitive. To confirm every lie she had told.

Claude pressed his palm to the rough bark, dragged himself upright.

To find her, he would have to run toward the Armagnac lines. Toward the army that would hang him on sight. Toward the sister who had burned his reputation to ash.

He looked back through the trees. The distant camp was a smear of smoke and banners. Ahead, the forest sloped toward the road south.

South, to Compiègne. South, to the French advance. South, to Marguerite.

He took one step. Then another.

The mission was dead. His name was dead. All that remained was the truth he would tear from his sister's throat, or die trying.