“About you. What shall I tell them about you, Margot? How would you like the story to go? Shall I say that you seduced the count? Or that he seduced you? Shall I say you got caught in a web of your own design? Or were in turn caught in a snare fashioned by Angoulême?”
“Do not act as if you have not had lovers before!”
“Of course I’ve had lovers. We both have.” In truth, she was my first lover and I hers, practicing our skills until we were ready to use them with those we knew less well. “But this is about turning your back on the convent and abandoning our sworn duty to them.”
She looks as if I have slapped her. Before I have a chance to feel guilty for that, she leans forward, her face contorted with spite. “Don’t you dare blame this on me. It was because of you that we were sent to molder in this rustic court.”
“That wasn’t my doing, but the regent’s!”
“If you had not thrown yourself at the king and caught his fancy, we would still be there, ready to aid the duchess upon her arrival.”
She is jealous, I realize. Jealous that I was the one who caught his eye, not her. “I did not throw myself at him,” I say between gritted teeth.
“No. You’re right. You did not have to throw yourself at the king. It was no doubt all those tricks you learned at your mother’s knee.”
Her words chase the air from my lungs. That she would throw the origins of my birth at me goes against all the convent’s precepts. Her face changes again, shifting to sly and knowing. “You worry the convent will be upset to learn of my fate? What makes you think they aren’t the ones who ordered me to do this?”
Her words are a swift, brutal kick to my gut and cause my entire body to flush with heat, then cold. I grip my knees with my hands. “Did they?”
The smug satisfaction on her face nearly causes me to retch. “Yes, they did.”
The enormity of the betrayal sends me reeling. That the convent had chosen her for such an assignment and not me is bad enough. But that she never mentioned they had contacted her is even more painful. “When did they tell you?”
She shrugs. “A few weeks before the count gave me the garnet necklace. That was no simple act of chance, Gen.” She says this as if I am some slow-witted child.
“How? How did they contact you?”
She looks down to arrange a strand of her hair. “In a letter. It was sent to the count, and he gave it to me.”
“Where is this letter?”
She snorts. “You think I kept it? I could not risk Louise finding it, so I burned it.”
“Were you ever going to tell me you’d heard from them? Or just keep it to yourself?” What I truly want to ask is Was there any word of me? Any action they wanted me to take? Any task they’d assigned to me? But I will bite my tongue clean off before letting her see how badly I hunger for that information.
“You didn’t need to know.” She avoids my eyes and adjusts the neckline of her bed gown.
I cannot help it—I reach out and grab her arm, forcing her to look at me. “That was never how things were between us. Why did you keep it from me?”
She pulls out of my grasp. “Because you turned into a sour old woman who refused to take any pleasure in what is all around us, and I was sick of it. Sick of your fake piety and your lofty airs. You act as if your eagerness to do the convent’s work makes you better than I am, but we both know just how false that is.”
“I do not give myself airs. I have been trying to stay strong. For you, for me, for the convent. For Mortain. I have been trying to do what was asked of us.”
“Doing the convent’s bidding was always more important to you than it was to me, Gen. You always cared more, while I hardly cared at all.”
Another brutal blow. “Why? Why would you not care?”
Her face twists with some ugly emotion I cannot name. “I think the more important question to ask yourself is why do you care so very much?”
Before I can answer, she leans back against her pillows, folds her hands, and rests them on her stomach. “It is because you had no place else to go, Gen. No other life to lead. But I did. I had many choices before me, while you had none.”
I can hardly catch my breath as she rips all remaining vestiges of our old friendship to shreds.
“Now I think you should leave. All this talk cannot be healthy for the baby.”
Slowly, stiffly, I rise to my feet. I want—desperately—to give her a chance to take it back, to say she is sorry. Anything but to leave it like this. But she says nothing.
“You are wrong,” I finally say, my face hot, eyes burning. “I had as many choices as you did. It is just that I have never seen shame in whoring nor understood the need to lie to oneself by dressing it up with silk and jewels.”
And with that, I take my leave.
Chapter 14
anton, whore, tart, strumpet, harlot, abricot, camp follower, poule de luxe. Of all the names people gave my mother and aunts, whore was they one they chose to call themselves. It was honest, Yolanthe explained. Far better than being called a luxury hen.
All of them had choices. Not many—no woman does. Laundress, tanner’s wife, brewess, spinner, weaver, gong farmer. Was it truly better to shovel other people’s shit or spend your days up to your elbows in others’ piss than to be paid for a tumble?
It was the Church, Yolanthe insisted, that perverted their trade to serve their own derision of women. It was the Church, she claimed, who erased Saint Amourna’s true past.
When I arrived at the convent, the nuns did not shame me for my mother’s profession. To them, all of us who arrived on their doorstep had our own unique set of tools that could be used in serving Mortain. Besides, if Mortain had seen fit to lie with our mothers, who were they to shame us—or Him—for His choice?
Margot is wrong, I think as my feet carry me down the hallway. I have just as many choices in my life as she did. I could marry. A tanner, a guildsman, a blacksmith, any number of men in the trades would be glad of me as a wife. In truth noblewomen, for all their privilege, have fewer options than I do—they may marry or go into a convent. But their alternatives provide them with food and shelter and clothing, while not all mine guarantee me even that.
Indeed, that is why so many of us found our way to the convent—it gave us some measure of freedom. While we swore an oath to serve Mortain, within that oath was a variety of ways in which to serve.
That is why I still keep my contract with the convent. Once I walk away from that, my opportunities are greatly reduced.
Although, I must admit, the choices and autonomy promised by the convent have not materialized like I’d hoped.
Margot is right about one thing. I have always cared more than she did. But not for the reason she thinks. It was never because I had no place else to go or no other options. It was because I wanted to prove to the world that I did have a choice. That was what allowed—allows me still—to keep believing they will call me into service. If not, I will have wasted ten years and been sent away from those I loved for nothing.
I am not willing to accept that.
When I reach my room, I let myself in and bolt the door behind me. It is a small chamber, given to Margot and me. It is too hot in summer and too cold in winter, but it was ours and ours alone. It was here that Margot and I would test each other on our convent lessons. Where we would practice the moves Sister Thomine had drilled into us, praying no one would hear the thumping that ensued as one of us inevitably hit the floor.
It was here that I waited in vain as Margot joined me less and less until she finally stopped coming at all.
I stride over to the two trunks shoved up against the far wall. I have never looked through Margot’s trunk. Not once. Not in Amboise when she first began to avoid my company, nor in Cognac when she finally cut me out of her life.
But today I must know if the convent ordered her to have an affair with Count Angoulême. Margot saves every small scrap of her life. If she rece
ived a letter from the convent, she would not have burned it. It would be in this trunk.
But it is locked. I reach for the small sewing kit in my pocket and unfold the leather flaps to pull out a large sturdy needle. Beneath my careful coaxing, the lock quickly gives way.
The trunk is nearly bursting with scraps of fabric, coils of ribbon, velvet pouches, and old gloves. There are dried flowers, small silver charms, a gold bracelet, and a jeweled stiletto I stole for her off a young, arrogant Italian ambassador. I paw through it all, looking for letters or parchment. My knuckles graze something hard—a rough wooden practice dagger. The sight of it nearly guts me. I made it for her when we first arrived at court and we were desperate for something with which to practice our skills. Was that a lie too?
I push the dagger aside and resume rifling. I find one of the silver powder boxes given to each of us by the convent. Instead of powder, it contains night whispers, a poison that kills when inhaled into the lungs. My hand closes around it, and I set it aside. I can still use it, even if Margot no longer has reason to.
Next to the box is a hairnet of gold thread and white pearls. Only they are not pearls at all, but cunningly designed wax beads that hold poison. The wax has shriveled somewhat, but the poison might still be usable.
It is not until I reach the bottom of the trunk that my hand meets parchment and my heart skips a beat. But there is no black wax seal, and when I glance at the words, I see it is a love note from her first lover in Amboise. There are two more letters from admirers but no other correspondence.
I slam the lid of the trunk shut. Would she truly have burned instructions from the convent? She who kept every note and small gift sent by her admirers? Any one of those would have gotten her in serious trouble with the regent. Far more so than correspondence from the convent would have endangered her with the count.
Unless it was instructing her to seduce him for the convent’s own ends. He might not take kindly to such orders.
I shove to my feet, stride over to the hearth, and grab the poker. Even though she hasn’t been up here in months, I sift through the ashes, hoping some scrap of the burned letter might still be there. After I have stirred every trace of ash at least twice, I toss the poker aside.
There is nothing. Nothing to indicate whether Margot lied or was telling the truth.
Nothing to subdue the trembling in my hands her spitefulness has caused.
Nothing to punch or kick or fight with. Nothing to pummel or beat or drive away.
I take two steps toward the door. I want to march back to Margot’s room and demand she tell me the truth. But that has never worked with her. The more I wanted something—her cooperation, her approval, her affection—the more she withheld it.
But she will never have that kind of power over me again.
Anger and frustration crackle through my limbs, and the walls themselves feel as if they are closing in, crowding me until I can scarcely breathe.
I retrieve my wooden practice dagger from my own trunk, then shove it into my belt. I cannot stay here a moment longer.
* * *
The deepest floor of the castle is as dark and empty as always. I grab the lone lit torch and make my way to the chamber I have used since we first arrived at Cognac. Margot came with me exactly twice, quickly giving up our practice sparring sessions for the other entertainment Cognac had to offer.
But for me, these sessions have been as necessary as air—connecting me to the convent and who I truly am, what I am meant to be. They were my best—and only—defense against despair.
With the chamber lit only by my single torch, I take up the position Sister Thomine drilled into us. Within moments I am moving in old familiar rhythms: lift, strike, kick, again. It is as calming as the lullaby my mother sang over my cradle.
I continue until my muscles burn with fatigue and my skin no longer itches. I continue until sweat trickles down my neck and along my ribs and the question about Margot’s letter no longer burns like a branding iron.
Only then do I allow myself to lean against the wall to catch my breath. I dread returning to the castle. Perhaps I will sleep here tonight and skip dinner altogether. My stomach protests by gurgling loudly. Grimacing, I rub my hand across my hollow belly. I am too hungry to miss supper.
That’s when I remember the prisoner.
The half-starved, forgotten prisoner rotting in his cell is the best company this wretched place has to offer. I will dine with him tonight.
Chapter 15
Sybella
y lady?” Captain Dunois’s voice greets me in the hallway as I emerge from the council room. He has been waiting for me.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I wanted to convey my appreciation for your handling of the Crunard situation. Your timely actions kept the matter firmly contained. Thank you.”
His praise is a welcome balm to my tattered spirit. “Thank you, my lord. I am always pleased to use my skills to help the duchess.”
“As you have demonstrated time and again.”
The ugly memory of Pierre in the garden shoves his compliment aside. I wonder what Dunois would say about my handling of that situation—or asking Beast to go after him.
Or my decision to say nothing about it at the council meeting.
“Do you by any chance know where Beast was this afternoon?”
It is the question I’ve been dreading. Do I tell him the truth? The part of me that has steeped for years in the shame and despair of the d’Albret family is reluctant to share my past with him. Let alone tell him of Pierre’s visit and threats. I feel as if I am somehow responsible for it all. And am I not? Was it not my own actions that brought him here?
It seems better—easier—to wait until Beast returns and we can lay the entire episode at Dunois’s feet, tied up as neatly as a bale of wool.
Although how the matter will be neatly resolved escapes me. What will Beast do if he is able to find Pierre? Kill him? Assuredly that would be the easiest and most satisfying solution. But it would not resolve the custody of me or my sisters—the next male d’Albret in line for the title would inherit that duty along with the family estates.
“My lady?”
“The last time I saw him, he was riding out the main gate into the city. He was . . . in quite a hurry. I assumed he was on some business for you or Duval.”
“No, but he has plenty of his own duties that could draw him off in such a fashion.” Captain Dunois pulls on his chin for a moment, considering.
This lie sits queasily in my stomach. “Was that all, my lord?”
“No.” He glances at the hallway around us, which is deserted now. “I wished to speak with you about some concerns regarding our upcoming trip to the French court.” He picks his words carefully. “The French court is not accustomed to women of your skills. Since France no longer worships the Nine, they have no convent or saint that encourages such behavior. They will likely not know what to make of it and could easily consider it a stain on your character.”
A chill settles along my skin, and it is all I can do not to rub my arms. “So I must keep my sisters and the queen safe without letting anyone see how I do it, lest my protecting of them suggest that I am unworthy of the queen’s regard?”
“My lady, you know how much I admire you and your skills, but the French king will not appreciate the nuances of how Brittany chooses to worship the Nine. He will see it as irregular at best, and as heresy at worst. It is one of the reasons Duval was so insistent on the duchess maintaining rule over the duchy—so the king would continue unaware of the nature of Bretons’ faith. And of all the Nine, it is Mortain that most threatens the Church, for he competes with God Himself in matters of life and death.”
“Once, perhaps, but no more,” I remind him.
He throws his hands out to his sides. “But how to explain that to them when I cannot even do so to myself?”
I have no answer, since I am no more able to than he. How do
es one describe what happened on the battlefield that day? How does one explain the transformation of Death?
“Whatever the case, I think it important you not reveal that you worship Mortain or serve him.”
That he is right does not make his words any more welcome. While I knew my faith would be uncommon in France, I did not know it would make me anathema to the king. “Very well, my lord. While this will be inconvenient, I thank you for the warning.” It is hard not to feel as if all my paths to safety are narrowing.
But the duchess has promised her protection. And the king dotes on her and will grant her every wish. He has already demonstrated that. All I must do is remain unobtrusive and discreet.
As if sensing my despondency, Captain Dunois continues. “Beast, too, will have to tread carefully. His exploits and battle lust are well known to both the French army and the court. Many there will have faced him on the battlefield. They will not bear him any love. Indeed, they may protest his presence in their midst.”
“This will not come as a surprise to him.”
The older man reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “There is more you should know about the French court.” He squints down at the toe of his boot. “While it is as decadent and indulgent as any court in Europe, unwed maids are held to a much higher standard.”
“It is the same here,” I point out.
He nods, still fascinated by his boot. “True. But the duchess has a romantic heart and is generous with those who have served her well. While she may be happy to turn a blind eye to your, ah, alliance, the regent will not. She keeps a firm hand on that sort of thing. It is just one of the reasons so many noble families send their daughters to be her wards—they can be certain of the stringent moral standards she will hold them to.” It is hard to tell who is more uncomfortable with this conversation, the captain or myself. “She has even gone so far as to interfere with the king’s paramours, although one imagines somewhat less so now that he has reached his majority.
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