I am so astounded by his words that I can only blink in response.
He picks up a heavy silver inkpot and begins studying it. “Beast’s family, too, has its skeletons.” While Beast himself has told me of them, I am stunned that Captain Dunois would speak of it. “I do not know how much he has told you—”
“All of it, my lord.”
He nods. “I had hoped so. But there is one thing that Beast does not know yet. I wish to tell you as well, for he will not be happy when he learns of it. Like you”—he glances up from the inkwell long enough to send me a piercing look—“he may try to blame himself or use it to pull away from those he cares about.”
Merde. The clarity with which Captain Dunois sees me is most unsettling.
“It is about Beast’s father.”
“His father?” The word invokes a lifetime of Beast’s pain and fury and anger. A lifetime of his mother’s hatred for being born to her through the rape of a French soldier. “He claimed to have no father.”
“Lord Waroch is dead,” Captain Dunois says quietly. “But the man who sired Beast is not.”
I reach out to steady myself once more against the chair. “Are you certain?” I think of Beast, and the years of ill treatment by his mother, a young boy’s understanding of the unfathomable sins of his father.
Captain Dunois stares at the inkwell morosely. “I knew—know—him, I’m afraid. When he returned from the war, he was not shy about boasting of his exploits, nor of how he treated the lady of the keep he had commandeered—Beast’s mother.”
“My lord, why are you telling me this?”
“I tell you because his father is high up in King Charles’s army and known to frequent the French court. There is a chance Beast will run into him during your time in France. I did not wish him to do so unprepared.”
“Would it not be better for Beast to remain unaware of this?”
Dunois grimaces and sets the inkwell down. “There is a strong family resemblance. I fear that if they meet, it will be obvious to both of them. I don’t want Beast taken by surprise.”
“But why tell me?”
“Because it is the part of himself that Beast hates the most, my lady. The part that kept him from even allowing a woman into his life. If he erects a wall between you when he learns of this, I want you to breach it.”
Our eyes meet in a moment of perfect understanding. “I will not let him cast me away so easily.”
He gives a ghost of a smile, then stands and heads for the door. When he reaches it, he pauses. “The gods set all this in motion years ago, my lady. None of this is your fault,” he says softly. “Not Pierre, not the guard. You must also know this: There is no place Beast would rather be than pursuing those that mean you harm. Relieve yourself of that burden, at least.”
Then he is gone, and I am left struggling to accept both his unexpected trust and the absolution he has so generously given.
* * *
When I return to my chambers, I thank Ismae, Lazare, and Yannic, then dismiss them until morning.
Ismae lingers. “Any word on Beast?”
“No, though Captain Dunois does not think it is time to worry yet.”
“He is likely right.” She bids me good night and follows Lazare out of the room. Yannic pauses in the doorway, his gnarled hand outstretched to give me something.
It is small and round. A black pebble, I think. “Is this one of your lucky ones?” He has them blessed by saints or priests or whomever he can find before using them in his deadly slingshot. “Thank you. It is lovely. Who was this one blessed by?”
He makes a cutting motion at his throat, lolling his head to the side, eyes closed.
“Mortain?”
He shakes his head.
Frowning, I try again. “Balthazaar? Before he left?”
Yannic waggles his hand back and forth. Not wanting to press him further, I close my palm around the pebble. “Thank you.”
When he is gone, I close the chamber door and cross over to my small trunklet. I lift the lid and place the stone in the box, then retrieve the sprig of holly from my belt and lay it next to the pebble before closing it again.
When I turn toward the far corner of the room, I see Tephanie sitting beside the bed, her face pale, her hands tightly clasped together.
Even though the bed curtains are tightly drawn, I keep my voice low. “Tephanie.”
Her head snaps up, her face brightening. “My lady!”
I motion her away from the bed to the fireplace. “Thank you again, for seeing to my sisters.”
“Of course, my lady. I am honored to be of service.”
“That may well be, but this sort of service is far more than you bargained for.” She starts to protest, but I hold up my hand. “Tephanie.” My voice is as gentle as I know how to make it. “You are pale, and your hands still shake. You were not meant to be a guardsman, but a beloved and devoted companion. While I would be sad to see you go, I cannot help but feel you would be happier in some other role. One that does not put you in harm’s way.”
Her hand flies to her cheek. “Oh no! I wish to serve you and the girls. Please don’t send me away.”
I reach out and tuck a strand of her mousy brown hair behind her ear. “Dearest goose, it would not be dismissing you, but seeing that you are safe.” For the briefest of moments, she allows her cheek to rest against the tips of my fingers, then quickly pulls away. “You understand, I cannot guarantee that something like this will not happen again?” I say softly.
She plucks nervously at her skirt. “I know, my lady. But few who are suited to the task of caring for young girls would be prepared for such things. I know your family and what to expect. I will be more alert from now on. I grew careless.”
“This is in no way a reproach of you or how you reacted! None of us expected Pierre to be so bold. You were courageous and kept your head, and for that you have my eternal gratitude.” Tephanie is one of the few who have found a place in my heart, and I would not hurt her for any reason. And as I gaze into her large brown eyes, eyes that are practically pleading with me, I realize that sending her away would hurt her. “If you truly wish to stay, I would be honored to have you.”
As moved as I am by Tephanie’s devotion, she is also one more person I will have to protect. All while hiding every weapon, skill, and talent I possess. It is beyond galling and I want to rail at the stupidity of a world that requires such rules. But I cannot do that without fear of drawing the judgment I wish to avoid. Merde.
But Tephanie will be under no such scrutiny. “Tephanie, do you still have that knife I gave you in Nantes?”
She looks at me blankly for a moment before her face clears. “Yes, my lady!”
I shove aside the rug in front of the fire. “Fetch it, then. Tonight we will begin your first lesson.”
Chapter 18
Genevieve
return to the dungeons bearing a large sack of food. When asked, I told the kitchen servants I was taking it to Margot. They were surprised, as they had sent up a separate tray less than an hour before. I smiled and told them that with the babe, Margot had the appetite of three men.
Reassured by this good sign, they piled my tray high with all manner of food—plenty for both me and the prisoner.
I quickly transfer it to a sack, fill the empty wineskin with water, and return to the dungeon. As I draw near the oubliette, I can hear the prisoner moving. I slow my steps so I may listen better. He is breathing heavily, panting almost. A faint whooshing sound comes in a steady rhythm, pauses, then starts up again. I am so busy concentrating that I do not mind my feet and stumble on an uneven cobble and nearly land on my face.
“Ah, my ghost has returned.”
“Just how many ghosts do you have visiting you?”
“Too many.” His voice is bleak. “But you are my favorite.”
“You only say that because I come bearing food.”
My words are met by silence. “You do?” He is
not quite able to hide the faint tremble of hope in his voice.
“I do.” When I reach the thick iron grate, I set the torch nearer to it than I have in the past, as I will need some light in order to get all this food down to him.
Mostly to give him something to do besides salivate while he waits for me to open the grate, I ask, “What were you doing just now?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I got here, you were doing something. Moving. Panting.”
There is a long moment of silence interrupted only by the screech of the bolt as I slide it free. “Exercising.” The word is filled with both faint defiance and sheepishness. “I cannot have my body become as enfeebled as my mind.”
I almost laugh at how closely his actions match my own of just a few moments ago. I wrest the hatch open, lie flat on my belly, and lower the sack down as far as I can. “Here.”
There is a faint whoomp as he catches it, then rustling as he unties the knot and retrieves his dinner: bread, cheese, two meat pies, a small game hen wrapped in laurel leaves, an apple and cheese tart. “This is a feast.” His voice holds a note of wonder.
I smile in pleasure. “It should satisfy you for at least an hour or two.”
As he begins to eat, I scoot closer to the grate. “How long have you been here?”
“Not sure,” he says around a mouthful of food. “I can remember the hot sun on my back and the smell of ripening wheat. But whether that was a year ago or two, I cannot say. And you?” His question startles me. “How long have you been here?”
I open my mouth, a lie at the ready, then stop. I am so tired of lying. Every breath I take, every word that crosses my lips has been a lie, and I am sick of it. Besides, he is alone in a dungeon, by all signs completely forgotten by everyone. Surely anything I tell him is no different than telling a dead man. “Just over a year.”
“And in all that time you have never wandered down here before. What brought you that first day?”
His deep rumble of a voice is gentle. It is a safe voice, a voice that is naught but darkness and breath. No face. No body. No past. No future in which to tell any of the secrets I might share. Only this moment when I do not have to wear a mask or dance to a tune I loathe. “Curiosity.” I do not tell him of the beating heart, or the promise of death that held for me, or the sense of dread that day.
“It is curiosity that brings you today?”
“No. Today it is anger,” I say without thinking. But it is not the whole of it. It is yet another lie.
In the darkness, all the words I have been unable to speak for months, nay, for years, press down upon me, heavier than the stone walls that surround us. “No, what truly brings me is pain.”
There is a faint whisper of movement. I cannot be certain through the murk, but I think he tilts his head, studying me. His regard is as tangible as a touch. “What hurts?”
“My heart.” I do not think I say it out loud, but somehow in the absolute quiet of the dungeons, he hears it.
“Ah.” His voice is full of sympathy. “Heart wounds are the hardest to heal.”
“Do they ever heal?” The question sounds small, like one a child might ask, and yet it feels like more of a risk than any I have yet taken.
“In a manner of speaking. But they leave a scar. How much of one depends on how well you tend the wound.”
I scoff in disdain. “How does one tend a heart wound? Poultices will not reach it. There is no salve that can be placed upon it, nor splint nor bandage.”
“Time,” he says softly. “Time is the best salve for heart wounds. Reminding oneself of the small joys and comforts that can still be found in the world. A voice in the dark, a friend, the smell of fresh apples. All of those, over time, can help.”
He is speaking of me. I am the voice in the dark, and it is I who smell faintly of apples. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him, but the words lack heat. It is a far cry from the large, important things I envisioned doing when I first ventured forth from the convent. But it is better than nothing.
“Let us talk of anger, then, for anger can warm as well as any fire.” I can practically hear him rubbing his hands together, as if over a flame. “Who has earned your anger?”
“Everyone,” I whisper. “Every rutting one of them.” As soon as the words are out, I feel lighter, as if I have thrown off some heavy, suffocating cloak. “But mostly Margot.”
“And who is this Margot who has earned your wrath?”
She has earned it. “She is my . . . sister.”
“Ah, is there any relationship as complicated as that of a sibling? I think not.” There is a rustle of sound. I grow very still, ready to flee if he is making some attempt to see through the grate, but the sound quickly stops.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” I ask.
“Three brothers. All dead.” His voice is short, clipped. I remember the ghosts he spoke of and wonder if I have just seen a part of his own heart wound.
It is oddly comfortable, sitting in the dark sharing secrets. It is what my mother and aunts used to do after a long night’s work, when their customers had gone. They would climb into their beds and tell an amusing story, whisper some juicy bit of gossip, or some odd tidbit about one of their customers. It is as welcome and familiar as a small fire on a cold winter’s day.
For a moment, I am filled with homesickness, something I have not felt since I was seven years old and spent my first few weeks at the convent. But this homesickness is different. I do not miss the tavern with its creaky beds and bug-ridden straw. What I miss is that part of me that used to feel safe, that used to thrill in the exchange of secrets, that used to care enough to feed a starving cat.
Who are you? That question has haunted me since the prisoner first asked it. Tonight, I feel closer to the answer than I have in a long time.
* * *
Even though it is late when I return to the main floor, there is a surprising amount of activity. The kitchen is still bright with light and voices, and I pass three different servants rushing by me. When I recognize Marie, I reach out and stop her. “What is going on?”
She spares me a harried glance. “It’s Lady Margot, my lady. The babe is coming!” And with that, she bobs a curtsy and hurries on her way, arms full of clean linens.
And even though Margot has turned our friendship to ash and salted the earth beneath our feet, I murmur a quick, silent prayer to both Mortain and Dea Matrona for a safe, easy birth.
But maybe not too easy.
Chapter 19
Sybella
dress carefully in a black brocade gown for the audience with Viscount Rohan. Ismae has a similar gown that she wears so the two of us may stand at the duchess’s shoulder, a lethal reminder not to underestimate the future queen.
But first, I must see to my sisters’ safety. And to do that, I must face the followers of Arduinna.
Not only are those who follow the patron saint of love’s sharp bite noted for their ferocity and martial skills, but they have a longstanding animosity toward Saint Mortain and those who follow him. I can only hope their friendship with Annith and the role she and Mortain played in bringing peace to our land have gone a long way toward healing that.
I find the Arduinnites in a small chamber just off of the duchess’s solar. They, too, will be posing as ladies in waiting to the duchess so she will not be defenseless at the French court. Aeva is standing with her hands stuck out awkwardly at her sides, like some ungainly heron. Large swathes of beige and black silk are draped around her body, her legs braced as if she has just dismounted from her horse. When she sees me, her eyes narrow. “If you so much as smile, I will gut you with my knife.”
I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep from doing precisely that. “I would not dream of it.” The greeting is somewhat harsh, even for a follower of Saint Arduinna, but Aeva is one of the prickliest of them all. The younger Arduinnite, Tola, does not look fully at home in her new gown, but neither does she
look like she is within a hair’s breadth of yanking it off.
“Why are you here?” The challenge in Aeva’s voice is unmistakable. Whether it is because I serve Mortain or because it is simply more comfortable to challenge me than to be embarrassed over the gown, I do not know.
“Don’t scowl so!” I chide her. “I am here attending the duchess this morning. Besides, you look even more ridiculous in your fancy gown when you screw up your face like that. Here.” I step forward, dodging the beleaguered seamstress pinning up the hem. “Pull the sleeves down toward your wrist. It will free up more room at your shoulders. See?”
Glaring at me, she pinches the wrist of her left sleeve and gives it a tug. As she rotates her shoulder, the scowl lessens somewhat. She does not so much as grace me with a thank-you. “What other tricks are there to surviving such finery?” she grumbles.
“For one, you must move more slowly to give your skirt time to get out of your way.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I talk over her. “Except when you must run. Then lift it up, like so.”
“How am I supposed to fight when I must hold up my skirts?” she protests.
“It is most vexing,” I concede. “My fighting tends to be less out in the open than yours, and for this assignment that will hold true for you as well.” I turn to the chair where she has set all her weapons, my hand hovering over one of the knives. “May I?”
“Why?” she asks warily.
“So I may see if it is possible to fit it under your sleeves like I do.”
“Very well,” she says, as if allowing me to pluck one of her teeth from her jaw.
“If you’d rather I didn’t . . .”
She scowls even deeper, and this time I cannot help but laugh. “You are easier to bait than a mad bear. I am only trying to help, but will leave you alone if you’d rather.”
“Stay. I will no doubt need all the help I can find in this monstrosity.”
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