MV02 Death Wears a Crown by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, Bill Fawcett

would happen, and therefore you should not have to answer for it,” she said reasonably.
    “True, but you are a guest in my inn, and you should not be subjected to such abuse. I would prefer you allow me to make this gesture. I do not want it said that I prey on the misfortunes of my guests. I should have arranged for you to be guarded better, but to say truly, I supposed that the corporals were only trying to increase their importance by claiming you carried money and dispatches.”
    Victoire suspected that the man had spent the last hour preparing to say that to her, and so she regarded him steadily. “There is no reason to fear me, or to assume that my husband would hold you responsible for what occurred. The corporals have more to fear from him than you do.”
    “But still,” said the landlord. “Please do me the courtesy of accepting my hospitality without charge.”
    She was aware he was serious, but she could not entirely ridherself of the obligations she felt. “Then take this”—she held out a silver coin—“for the chocolate. Will you do that, at least?”
    He chuckled and accepted the coin. “Very well.” He looked over at the mongrel as it gave a low whine as it turned in its sleep. “Poor old Bouchonie. He’s more than ten years old. It’s a shame he had to be hurt.”
    Victoire agreed, adding, “Still, if he bit the man, he had his revenge.”
    The landlord hitched up his shoulders. “A heavy blow to an old dog, who’s to say what it might do to him?”
    At that Victoire became inquisitive. “Do you truly think that he bit the man?” What had he said his name was? Mon ... Montra ... something. She shook her head and listened to the landlord.
    “I think he must have. No one complained of his biting when they visited the necessary houses; the ostlers have not been bitten. It could be that he caught a rabbit, but why would he be hurt?” He made a gesture of futility. “The dog cannot talk, Madame, so I may only speculate. And my speculation leads me to think that he bit the thief as he fled.”
    “You may be correct,” said Victoire, wondering how she would ever be able to locate a musician without his instrument and sporting a bullet-wound and a dog-bite.
    “And I may not,” the landlord concurred. He took her extended hand and bowed over it. “I hope that you will not hold this misfortune against my inn, Madame Vernet.”
    “The inn did not try to rob me,” she pointed out. “Rest assured that your reputation will not suffer at my hands, or my husband’s.” This was clearly what the landlord wanted to be certain of, she realized, and she went on, “Neither of us have any reason to think poorly of you or to question your role in the ... incident.”
    “You are very gracious, Madame Vernet,” said the landlord, bowing to her once more, relief in every line of his body.
    “Hardly that,” she corrected him. “But I am about to be late, and that would be unfortunate.” She had heard footsteps in the hallway and the sound of the ostlers harnessing the team to the diligence.
    The landlord escorted her to the door of his inn with a flourish. “I have enough to apologize for,” he said with an attempt at gallantry. “So I will not seek to detain you further.”
    The driver was squinting up at the sky as the eastern horizon brightened to silver and rose. “There’ll be wind today,” he announced to the passengers gathered in the inn yard. “Best keep your coats about you.”
    With this unwelcome thought, Victoire permitted the landlord to hand her up into the diligence, and noticed that the two corporals, her self-appointed escorts, were watching with ill-concealed annoyance. Affronted as they were, Victoire hoped that it would teach them to be more prudent in what they said to other travelers. Concealing a shudder at the lingering shock of the night, she took her place in the carriage. They would pass the night in Beauvais, she thought, following the map in her mind. And then