Finally, she looks up at me, her face red and swollen, her tear-filled eyes wide with fear. She nods and throws her arms around my neck. Relief, as sweet and gold as honey, flows through my limbs. “Let’s see to your sister.”
Charlotte is already standing and brushing the grass off her skirts. I pull her into a one-armed hug, which she allows for a second before stepping away. I grab her hand and hurry toward Tephanie.
“Are you all right?” I ask softly.
“I am fine,” she says, even though her hand still trembles.
“You know I didn’t mean any of what I said—”
“I know, my lady! Here.” She reaches for my sisters’ hands. “I’ll take the girls. Now go and do whatever it is you must!”
I want to hug her for her understanding. Instead I pick up my skirts and tear out of the garden, hurrying down the path that leads to the courtyard. They cannot have gotten far—all three were wounded, and one was surely dying. When I turn the corner into the courtyard, however, I am assailed by a wall of heartbeats, and my steps falter.
The palace yard is filled with at least fifty of Viscount Rohan’s men, with more pouring in through the gate. Some are mounted, others are on foot, but all are wearing the exact same tabard and cloak as Pierre and his men. I pause, trying to pick out the three familiar figures, but they have been swallowed by the crowd.
For a moment, I am pinned by indecision. I can call for the palace guard, but what to tell them? That my brother was here and demanded custody of our sisters? Something he has every right to do? That it was done at knifepoint will matter little, I fear.
No. What is between Pierre and me is best handled privately, at least for now. And without knowing why Rohan is here, it cannot be wise to alert him to this breach in our security.
And then, as if the gods have answered a prayer I have not yet had time to utter, I see Beast, striding on the other side of the crowd, half a head taller than most. He has not changed for the council meeting and still bears his weapons from the training yard. “Beast!”
His head snaps up, his gaze finding mine at once, knowing immediately that something is wrong.
“Pierre!” I call out over the heads of the milling crowd. I hold up three fingers and point them toward the gate.
Beast’s face shifts at once, becoming hard and lethal. With an abrupt explanation, he grabs the nearest horse, leaps onto it, and puts his heels to its flanks. Hapless soldiers scramble out of his path as he gallops toward the gate in pursuit.
A horse entering the courtyard just then prances out of his way, the woman rider swerving as she tries to calm her mount. A second prayer answered. “Ismae!” I call out.
She takes one look at my face, then quickly steers her horse to a mounting block. I reach her in time to hold the reins while she dismounts. She is scowling by the time her feet touch the ground. “What’s wrong?”
“Pierre was here.”
Her face blanches, and her hands reach for the knives at her wrists. “Where?” Her voice is steady, deadly.
“Gone. Beast has just ridden after him.” I quickly fill her in.
“Where are your sisters now?”
“In the garden with Tephanie. I must get back to them.”
Ismae nods. “Go. I will find reinforcements and meet you in your room.”
I turn and race back to the garden. If I were planning such an abduction, I would have a second team of men ready to snag the girls if my first attempt failed. Fortunately, Pierre is not that clever.
Chapter 11
Genevieve
y plan to let Margot know that the offering was safely made is thwarted when Louise is struck by a fierce bout of morning sickness that lasts three entire days. Finally, the sickness passes and Louise does not need all of us to attend her every minute. As I make my way to Margot’s chamber, a messenger arrives for Count Angoulême.
Margot will have to wait.
I give the messenger some time to deliver his message, then contrive to be strolling by Angoulême’s office door within minutes of his departure. Angoulême looks up from his desk as I pass and calls out to me.
“Genevieve!”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You saw the messenger arrive.” It is not a question.
“Yes, my lord.” The curtains are drawn against the chill, and a fire crackles in the hearth. There is a brace of candles on his desk as well as blank sheets of parchment, a pot of ink, and a stack of fresh quills. Out of habit, I glance down to see if I can recognize any of the wax seals.
“He brought news of the duchess and the situation in Brittany.” He reaches out and straightens one of the letters on his desk.
“And?” Will the man make me pluck each word from his tongue?
“The king and the duchess of Brittany are to be married.”
The words are so unexpected, so unwelcome, that I draw back as if he has struck me. “You cannot be serious.”
He shifts in his chair, scowling in irritation. “Of course I am serious. Why would I lie about such a thing?”
“But it makes no sense!” I insist. “Last we heard, the king was marching on Rennes to besiege it.”
The count reaches for the decanter on his desk. “It seems that the principals involved decided it would be better for everyone if they married instead.”
I shake my head. “That cannot be. The late duke was opposed to such a union. The countries have been enemies for as long as I can remember.”
“I am aware.” The count’s voice is dry as dust, for he fought alongside the duke in many of those skirmishes.
“Why would the duchess betray all that he fought for? All that she has fought for?”
“Oh, come now.” He fills a crystal goblet with wine. He does not offer me any. “Marriages are naught but contracts between powerful families. France has been occupying Brittany for months and threatening her borders for years.”
“But agreeing to marry is the ultimate surrender. Why would she trade away all her bargaining power like that?”
He slowly leans back in his chair, studying me. “Is that what you think of marriage?” My hands itch to punch the condescending look off his face. “What else was the duchess to do? She had run out of options.”
“Resist. Wait for her husband, Maximilian, to arrive with help.”
“It was only a proxy marriage,” he points out. “And she waited for months and months. No meaningful help came. He was too consumed by his own wars. She pawned every crown jewel she possessed to procure mercenary troops. Begged and appealed to every ally, each of whom sent just enough help to ease their conscience, but not enough to do her any good. She was truly out of options.” He takes a sip of wine. “It was the best choice she could make under the circumstances.”
The explanation makes sense, yet every bone in my body resists what he is telling me, and I feel sick inside. “What of Princess Marguerite? Will they just set her aside? She will not be happy with that. Nor will her father.”
Angoulême snorts derisively. “No one imagines either of them is happy. Maximilian may take some action against France or Brittany, but that action will be tempered by the fact that France now holds his daughter hostage.”
I feel sick for Marguerite as well. She was much beloved by the king, as well as Madame. Since she was three years old, she has been pampered and indulged and raised with all the royal magnificence due a future queen of France. Now that has been taken from her.
It changes not only the dauphine’s position, but mine as well. If Brittany and France are now allies, if they are one country unified under one ruler, where does that leave me? Or the convent? Do they still answer to the duchess and serve her interests above all else? “Will Brittany remain independent, or shall it become part of France?”
Angoulême looks down into his goblet. “I am certain it is part of France now.” He swirls the contents. “Why else would the king go to all the trouble to marry such a thorn in his side as your duchess has been to him?�
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His words set my teeth further on edge. That is when I finally understand my own distress. The marriage makes Brittany’s independence simply a point to be negotiated on a contract. I thought what the convent was fighting for was more important than that. And now it seems that I was wrong. “I still am not sure I believe it. Is it possible she was forced into it?” If that is true, then surely there is still some role for me to play.
“Now you are just being absurd.”
“Even so, shouldn’t you at least send a message to confirm the truth?”
“Foolish girl! Do you not think the regent has me watched for just such a misstep?”
I stare at him in bemusement.
He laughs outright. “Do you think I can write to the duchess’s Privy Council or your precious convent whenever I please? Do you think my comings and goings and, yes, even my correspondence, are not scrutinized by the regent? Come now, Genevieve. Surely the convent trained you better than that.”
“Of course they did, my lord,” I snap back. “But I also assume that you have means of working around those obstacles, else what use would you be to the convent?”
His nostrils flare in agitation. “You forget yourself. Perhaps time will bring some clarity. Now leave. I have work I must do.”
“With pleasure.” I lift my skirts and storm from his chambers.
My head is a swirl of questions both heady and sobering. Was the duchess coerced? If so, and if she is on her way to the French court, why have I not been called to take action? Surely I am the most well placed initiate of the convent. Indeed, my connections with the French court could prove most helpful, even if she has not been forced into this marriage.
Hope, bright and shining, surges through me. In my darkest moments, I have come close to believing what both Angoulême and Margot claim—that the convent had forgotten about us. But now there is a chance their need for me could not be greater.
Chapter 12
Sybella
ephanie and the girls stand in the doorway that leads back into the palace, closer to people than the abandoned garden, yet not so far that I will not know where they have gone. Tephanie has managed to calm Louise, while Charlotte is carefully smoothing her gown over and over.
At my approach, Louise looks up. The hesitation on her face cuts me to the quick. “Come,” I say, as if their entire world had not just been turned upside down. “Let’s return to our chambers.” I take each of their hands in my own. Charlotte tries to tug away, but I refuse to let go.
If I had a choice, I would keep some truths from both of them all their lives. Even though they have lived in the d’Albret household and have seen much, they do not fully understand all that they saw. But today they have witnessed more violence, cruelty, and hate than most girls are exposed to in a lifetime. I cannot simply ignore it. Between Pierre’s accusations and my own actions, I must tell them something.
When we finally reach our chamber, I pull the girls inside while Tephanie closes the door behind us. I kneel in front of them, not letting go of their hands. Louise’s enormous brown eyes look like crushed autumn leaves. Was I ever that young? That innocent? I must have been, but I can no longer remember it.
And Charlotte. The look on Charlotte’s face guts me even more, for it is filled with both familiarity and knowing. She has seen some version of this before, and she believes that whatever I am about to tell her will likely be a lie, or at the very least, an attempt to put too fine a polish on what is naught but a lump of lead.
“First, you need to know that I did not mean any of what I said to Pierre. I do care about you—about Tephanie—but wanted Pierre to believe otherwise.”
“Why?” Louise’s voice is whisper quiet.
“I hoped if he thought I did not love you, he would not bother to hurt you. It is like you pretending your favorite doll is not your favorite so Charlotte will not tease you with it.”
Her face clears in understanding even as Charlotte scowls at me.
My voice grows softer, for these next words are hard to get past the sorrow that fills my throat, the wound still fresh. “You must also know that I did not kill our brother Julian.” Although I now know we shared no blood, I will always think of him as my brother. “He was killed trying to protect me, and while I love him all the more for it, you can be certain that will weigh on my conscience for all eternity.”
“Who was trying to hurt you?” Louise’s voice is small.
How do I tell her it was her father? I reach out and cup her tender cheek in my hand. “Someone who enjoyed cruelty for its own sake and had no care for those he hurt.”
“Oh.” That seems to be enough for her. She has not been around him much. He did not bother himself with his children until they could be of use to him. When I turn to Charlotte, however, I can see that she knows precisely who it was that tried to hurt me. She regards me for a long moment before nodding, as if she has deigned to believe me.
Unable to resist, I quickly hug her for her faith in me, then I plant a quick kiss on her forehead before doing the same to Louise.
Behind me, the door opens, followed by a murmur of voices. Ismae has arrived and has brought reinforcements. Lazare—a slender man whose face is as sharp as any blade and his eyes as cutting—is with her. He is one of the mysterious and maligned charcoal-burners who serve the Dark Mother, the one to pray to when the Nine have forsaken you. Maybe that is who I should look to for guidance now. Especially since she favors the scarred and wounded, those without hope.
Lazare is one of the first to leave the depths of the forest to serve the duchess. He is swift and deadly. We have fought together many times. I trust him implicitly. Next to him is a small gnome of a man grinning widely and nodding his head in enthusiastic greeting. Yannic, Beast’s loyal companion, is short and crooked, his movements clumsy and awkward, but his heart is bigger than a mountain, as is his courage. Even better, the girls know both of them, since they traveled with us when we made our escape from Nantes.
Smiling, Yannic reaches for Louise’s ear and pulls a small rock from it. She blinks. “How did you do that?” she demands. He winks at me, and I know that all will be well between them.
As Yannic and Lazare distract the girls, Ismae takes my arm and pulls me toward the door.
“What?” I ask, frowning. “Did Beast find Pierre?”
“He has not returned yet. But you and he are due in the council meeting.”
The council meeting! Merde, that seems like a lifetime ago. “Have I not missed it already?”
“No. Dunois and Duval were just heading down as I was coming to your room.”
“Did you tell them I was not coming?”
Ismae stares at me blankly. “Why would I?”
I pull my arm from her grip. “Surely my sisters need me more than the council does.”
Ismae gives a sharp shake of her head. “You yourself said that Pierre and his men were wounded. And Beast is close on their trail. If your brother had other reinforcements, they would have already made their move. They are gone. At least for now.”
I say nothing. My instincts scream at me to grab my sisters and go to ground, like a hunted fox, burrowing in the safety of the earth until the danger has passed.
Ismae grabs my arm again. “Look at them.”
Louise and Charlotte sit on the floor with Tephanie and Yannic, playing some sort of game with small stones. Lazare leans against the wall behind them, not smiling exactly, but not scowling either.
“They are fine,” she whispers. “And that council meeting is part of keeping them safe.” She gives my arm a shake. “You and Beast cannot both be absent. Besides, you are the one who invited the duchess to this meeting—one the council specifically wanted to have without her. You owe it to her to be there.”
I scowl. “How did you know I invited her?”
Her mouth quirks up. “Because when I went to tell her of it, she explained you already had.”
Ismae takes full advanta
ge of my hesitation and grabs my shoulders, spins me around, and shoves me toward the door. “The continued safety of your sisters depends on the duchess. She is your best protection against Pierre and his plotting. The stronger she is, the more she will be able to protect you. And with Beast in pursuit, he will not come back. Besides,” she says more gently. “I am also your sister. Do you not trust me to keep them safe?”
I make a face at her. For all that I do not like it, she is right. My best hope for their welfare is to continue my plan to accompany the duchess to France and get my sisters safely under the French crown’s protection. Pierre would not dare challenge the queen of France.
Which means I must attend the council meeting.
* * *
By the time I reach the large double door, I have put myself back together. If I am not precisely the same person I was when I got up this morning, it is a close enough approximation that no one should be able to tell.
The guard nods in recognition and opens the door to admit me. When I enter the room, it feels as if I have stepped from a black winter storm into a soft spring day. The room is buoyant—with relief and jubilation.
Grave Chancellor Montauban looks five years younger than he did a mere week ago, his face no longer haggard with worry. Jean de Châlons, the duchess’s own cousin, is actually smiling—transforming his predatory face into one that is charmingly handsome. He is precisely the sort of man I would have trifled with. Once.
The stalwart Captain Dunois, who has served the duchess all her life, still looks like an enormous bear, but at least he is no longer a grumpy one. While he is not smiling, exactly, there is an absence of tension in his face that is nearly a smile.
They are—of course—still savoring their victory. And why not? They are not the ones whose past enemy has just breached their walls and held a knife to their throat. My limbs threaten to renew their trembling, but I grip my skirt and squeeze ruthlessly until the weakness passes. Even though it feels as if some hound has just dug up all the dead, rotting remains of my family’s past, I will not let the privy councilors see that.
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