When I say nothing, he takes a sip of wine, his heavy-lidded gaze meeting my own. “No demands today that I put you in touch with the abbess of your convent immediately?”
I stare past him into the fireplace. “That gained me nothing, my lord. Once it became clear it was like beating a dead horse, there was no choice but to change my strategy.”
He rises to his feet—slowly. I cannot tell if he wants to intimidate me or show himself to his best advantage. Whichever his intent, it fails. “Did you just call me a dead horse?”
“Never, my lord.”
He comes out from behind the desk and sits upon the edge, crowding me. The chair presses against my legs, but I will not sit and give him the advantage of height. His knee pokes forward to rest ever so faintly against my thigh. “And what is this new strategy of yours, dear Genevieve?” His eyes are still slightly swollen from last night’s revelries. His nose is so long and sharp it could scythe wheat, and strikes a discordant note above lips that are as full and ripe as a woman’s.
It is hard to keep the contempt from my voice. “Wait as ordered until the convent sends further instructions.”
“They have forgotten about you,” he says, not without sympathy.
My fists clench. “I doubt that, my lord. Have you yourself not spent the last few months claiming how unforgettable I am?” He has not been subtle in pursuing me.
The sympathy shifts to something else, and I immediately regret my own stupidity. My anger made me careless.
He reaches up with his finger. Moving it across my skin, he draws a line from my temple down to my jaw. “You are unforgettable.” I know a modest maiden would recoil, in coy surprise if not outright shock. But I cannot—will not—give ground in this game he insists on playing.
“Such a stubborn chin. And those cheekbones! They could cut as surely as any blade.”
“Then you had best be wary and not play with sharp things.”
Slowly, to be certain I know he is ignoring my implied threat, he runs his finger back up to rest at the corner of my mouth. “But your lips tell a different story.”
In the haze of anger that descends upon me, I see only two choices. I can bite his repugnant finger clean off or take it in my mouth and wrap my tongue around it—simply to shock him.
Fortunately, my wits return. “My lips tell the story of a man who tried to pet a wolf he thought was tame. In the end, he lost his finger.” I shift my body, crowding myself back against the chair behind me. It causes his knee to slip and he nearly tumbles forward. He catches himself, but not before wine has slopped out of the goblet and onto his sleeve.
“I grow tired of this,” he growls.
I allow my own displeasure to shine through. “No more than I. Surely this is not what the convent of Saint Mortain had in mind when they asked you to sponsor me at court.” Indeed, in the past year it is as if his arrangement with them has faded into naught but a threadbare memory.
His lips flatten, but he does not argue. Instead he rises from the desk and returns to the chair behind it. “I have something for you. A gift.”
My breath hitches in my throat. That’s how it started between him and Margot—with a gift.
“Sire, I do not wish anything from you. It is enough that you give me food and shelter until the convent calls upon me.”
“Take it,” he insists, holding a small pouch out to me.
Reluctantly, I reach for it, my fingers closing around the thick silk. “This will not change anything between us.”
He stares at me over the rim of his goblet. “I would be disappointed if it did. Open it.”
I pull my gaze from his and fumble with the silk ribbons. When I turn the pouch upside down, a luminous white pearl on a thin chain of gold tumbles into my palm. It is lovely, but I do not tell him that.
“Do you know the meaning of a pearl, my dear?”
Most maids would not know the sexual implications a pearl implies, but I do.
“It celebrates the beauty of irritation,” he continues.
I jerk my head up at his unexpected answer. He smiles into his goblet. “I look forward to seeing you wear it.”
I close my fist around the gift, glad it is not breakable. “That will not happen, my lord.”
“Oddly, I find your never-ending irritation to be somewhat beguiling. It is puzzling to be sure, but you are young and I am patient. You are dismissed.” He lifts his goblet in salute, then turns away from me.
Nearly dizzy with his shifting humors, I head for the door. It is only when I am in the hallway and have taken a dozen steps away from his chamber that I allow some of the tension to leave my body. I lean against the wall a moment to collect myself. Unbidden, the memory of Margot receiving her first gift from Angoulême washes over me.
“Why did he give it to you?” I ask.
She is looking in the small, occluded mirror in our room, a chain of gold with three red garnets glittering in the candlelight as she turns this way and that to admire it. Her hair is almost the exact color of the jewels. “Because he likes me, silly.”
“Nothing good will come of it,” I warn.
She turns around to face me and grimaces. “You sound just like old Sister Claude fussing at her birds.”
When we came to the French court together, Margot and I, it was to be a great adventure. Two of Mortain’s own daughters, planted right under the long nose of the French regent, who was causing our country so much grief.
And at first, it was. We would spy on the courtiers, mimic their mannerisms and comportment. But the longer we were at court, the more Margot was pulled into the courtiers’ games and flirtations, and the more scornful of me she became.
“What were you doing in there?”
My head jerks up to see Margot herself standing in the hallway, glaring at me. I blink at the contrast between the Margot of my memory and how she looks now. Her red hair is as lush as ever, cascading around her shoulders like rich autumn leaves, but almost everything else about her has changed. She is rounder now, ripe to bursting with the babe she carries in her belly. Her eyes no longer sparkle with mischief or boundless energy, but are puffy and haunted-looking. I have heard the other women say she is not sleeping well. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be confined to your rooms.”
“I snuck out to find you. So?” Her mouth twists with jealousy. “What were you doing in Angoulême’s office?”
I close my hand tightly around the pearl necklace. “Nothing.”
She takes a step closer. “I don’t believe you.”
I sigh and tilt my head so she will see I am bored by this conversation. “If you must know, I was asking if he had any word from the convent.”
Some of the sharpness leaves her face as she barks out a laugh. “You are three times a fool, Gen.”
I shrug aside her scorn, happy enough that jealousy no longer clouds her thoughts. “Time will tell,” I mumble as I turn to walk away.
“Wait!” she calls out, lumbering after me.
As much as being near her is like pouring salt into a fresh wound, I do not have the heart to force her to shuffle after me, clumsy and awkward. I slow my pace. “According to you, we have nothing to say to each other.”
“I have something I must tell you. Ask you,” she corrects.
I slowly turn to face her, but she is peering down past her belly at her feet. She has not talked to me—or asked me anything—for more than four months. I cannot imagine what has changed her mind. Something unfamiliar flutters deep in my belly, and I cannot tell if it is annoyance or hope. That I can still feel hope where she is concerned angers me. “So ask.” I resume walking, but more slowly.
She grabs my arm. “Would you stand still for a minute?”
I am so startled by the faint note of desperation in her voice that I stop. “What?” Concern creeps in past the armor I have erected between us. “What is wrong? Is it the babe?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“No!” she says, her face stricken. “It is nothing like that.” Her eyes slip from mine to study the tapestry on the wall behind me. “It is just . . . I have a favor to ask.”
This time it is I who bark out a laugh. Of course she wants something. “I cannot imagine what it is that I could do for you. You have made it abundantly clear that I have nothing to offer you anymore.”
“There is one thing that only you can do for me.”
Her words snag me like a hook. But I cannot make this easy for her. Not after all the pain she has caused me, so I simply wait in silence.
Her cheeks grow pink, and she fidgets with her hands. That is when I notice she is holding a red silken cord. I recognize it immediately—it is one she cut off of her finest dress when we first came to court, thinking it would make an excellent garrote. It has sat unused for five years.
Her hands grip the cord tightly, as if drawing on it for strength, then she thrusts it at me.
Keeping the pearl necklace carefully concealed in my left hand, I take the cord with my right. “Is there someone I am to strangle for you?” I do not even try to keep the disbelief from my voice.
“Saints no, Gen! Stop searching for the convent in every single thing!” Her voice is low, but it feels as if she is shouting.
I glare at her mulishly. “If you’re asking a favor, mocking me seems an unwise approach.”
“Would you just listen?” The note of desperation is back, so I relent.
She glances left then right to be certain we are alone, and lowers her voice to a whisper. “This has nothing to do with the convent, but everything to do with the Nine. There is no one else I can ask. You and I are the only ones who still worship the old saints here.”
Even though the Church insists we call them saints, they are gods to me. And the convent. She has my full attention now.
“I need you to make an offering to Dea Matrona.” She nods at the red cord I now hold in my hand.
“And how am I to do that?”
“Under the light of a waxing moon, you must untie the knots and bury the cord with an offering at the base of a silver birch. If you do, it is said that Dea Matrona will widen my passage so that the babe can pass through easier, allowing for a less painful birth. I would do it myself, but in my current condition”—she flaps her hands at her overripe body—“I cannot sneak anywhere, let alone be certain I can lower myself to the ground or get back up again. Please. Will you do this for me?”
The faint note of panic is unmistakable now. She is afraid. Afraid of what is coming and her powerlessness to stop it.
“But we are not friends anymore. Surely only friends do these sorts of things for each other.”
“But we are sisters.” Margot’s eyes burn into mine. “Surely you would do this for a sister.”
“You have treated me more like a maidservant than a sister for nearly two years.”
She has the grace to be embarrassed. “Everything is a trade with you—a negotiation. If you will do this, then I will do that.”
I do not understand her frustration. “That is how the world works.”
Exasperated, she nearly stamps her foot. “Will you do it?”
I stare down at the red cord, wanting to shout at her that if she had only listened to me, none of this would have happened. She would not need to invoke Matrona’s help or fear the pain of childbirth. Instead I say, “Tell me exactly what I must do.”
Chapter 7
ell past midnight, when all the others are either asleep or engaged in bedplay, I slip from my room carrying the red silken cord and a small sack filled with all the things Margot said I would need.
No one sees me, and even if they did, they would simply assume I was on my way to meet a lover, for that is the way of things here at Cognac.
At the French court, our lives were constructed to make us pious, disciplined, and obedient. But the court at Cognac is designed around sensual pleasures, self-indulgence, and a great passion for the arts. After my upbringing at the convent and the austerity of Madame Regent, it felt as if I had been plucked from a barren winter tree and set down amidst a vibrant and dissolute summer garden.
I hated it. I still do.
Although, it amuses me greatly to think how Madame Regent would feel if she learned she had installed us in a den of libertines.
Outside, the gray clouds scuttle across the moonless sky. There is barely enough light to see my way through the castle’s courtyard down past the farrier. I cut a wide berth around the kennels for fear of setting all the count’s hounds to baying.
When I reach the castle wall, I let myself out through the small north gate that opens onto the field beyond. The entire countryside looks as if it has been dipped in charcoal dust, naught but shades of gray as far as my eye can see. Luckily, the silver birch is the lightest of them all, making it easy to spot.
The wind picks up, moving through the yellow dying birch leaves so that they sound like ghostly whispers. I ignore the shiver that trickles along my shoulders and kneel on the ground. Using my knife, I begin to dig, stabbing the blade into the earth at the base of the tree, the dirt rasping against the metal.
Of all the ways I had hoped to use my knife when I left the convent, preparing the ground for an offering to Dea Matrona on Margot’s behalf was not one of them.
I stop to push the hair out of my face. Everything about this is wrong. It is so wrong it makes my teeth ache, and my bones want to dance out of my skin. This is not what the convent wanted for us.
And yet, what did the convent want? For they have never, in all the five years, contacted us.
I begin digging again.
Margot comes from nobility, so the transition to the French court was easy for her. She, like the other highborn girls in Madame’s household, were confident enough in their own noble blood that they allowed themselves to disdain the rules occasionally, especially when Madame was away.
I never allowed myself such luxury, afraid my humble beginnings would show through if I relaxed my guard.
The hole finally big enough, I wipe the blade on my skirts, shove it back into its sheath, and reach for Margot’s sack.
It wasn’t until we arrived at the French court that Margot’s contempt for my roots began to show. Something about being among royalty brought all Margot’s snobbery to the surface. Although she still talked to me, she began to act as if I wasn’t good enough to share her table, let alone her bed. As if we were not both daughters of the same god and I was truly naught but a whore’s get and she a grand lady.
And yet here I am kneeling in the dirt, praying to Dea Matrona on her behalf to guarantee the safe birth of her bastard child.
I rip open the sack, remove a loaf of bread, and place it in the hole. Next comes the egg, which I set carefully atop the bread so it will not break. I take the red silk cord, untie each of the knots, then arrange it on top of the egg and bread, making certain no lines cross or overlap, which might cause the birth cord to tangle or wrap around a limb or neck. Once that is done, I use both my hands to shove the loose dirt back into the hole, packing it firmly into place. I uncork the wineskin and sprinkle a smattering of wine onto the tamped-down earth before leaning back to admire my handiwork.
Something is missing. A prayer, mayhap. But surely it is Margot who should be praying?
The wind rustles in the leaves overhead, a dozen dry, raspy voices reminding me that she is not here—only me. And whatever ways she has wronged me—and there are many—I do not know that she must pay for them with a difficult birth.
I bow my head and pray, asking Dea Matrona to bless Margot as she enters motherhood, to bless her babe, so that it will be hale and healthy, and to bless the birth so that both will survive.
* * *
; By the time I return to the castle, a sense of melancholy has descended over me. I am unwilling to return to the chamber I once shared with Margot and mope over her betrayal. Instead, my feet carry me to the small altar I have built in the rooms near the dungeon.
This entire floor is only ever lit with one torch set in an alcove, even though many alcoves line the wall. I decided to turn one of them into a place to worship the Nine away from the prying eyes of those who have fully embraced the dogma of the new Church.
Before arriving in France, I had not had many dealings with the Nine. They had always seemed as distant and remote as royalty. For the first half of my life, I knew them only as stories told by my mother. Of the wild, untamed Saint Mer, who ruled over wave and sea. Of Brigantia, whose wisdom was recognized by the Church, her skill and knowledge of healing taught not only in Brittany, but in France as well.
My mother spoke often of Dea Matrona, mother to us all, and her twin daughters, one each for the two sides of love. My mother had little fondness for the fierce huntress Arduinna, patron saint of virgins and love’s sharp bite. Saint Amourna, however, as patron saint of the beguiling nature of love, was a favorite of hers—of all who worked in my mother’s profession. According to my aunt Yolanthe, back in the mists of time, women like my mother and aunts were consecrated to her and their work considered holy.
Of the other gods, my mother had less to say, although they sometimes appeared in her stories. The terrible Camulos, god of war, and the far older and wiser Saint Cissonius, patron saint of travelers and crossroads. She also told tales of Saint Salonius, the patron saint of mistakes, whose tricks played on the other gods were the stuff of myth and legend.
And of course she told me of Saint Mortain and the convent that served Him.
At the convent my relationship with Mortain was straightforward enough. I would believe in Him and serve Him, and He would give me a path to a better life. Some of the girls thought of Him as their father, but for me, the word father conjured up sturdy Sanson, the tavern keeper, with his heavy beard, stained leather apron, and thickly muscled arms.
Courting Darkness Page 4
