Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  The seamstress gasps in distress. Aeva looks down at her. “I mean no disrespect. The gown is much lovelier when others wear it. It is not meant for such as me.”

  This appeases the other woman somewhat. Before Aeva can offend her further, the duchess enters the room followed by Ismae. We all curtsy.

  After she greets us all by name, she turns to me. “Have you been fitted for your gown?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Good,” the duchess continues. “Once you have finished with Aeva, I need you and Ismae to attend me. The councilors are gathering in the great hall.”

  For a moment, guilt raises its insistent head, but I hold Captain Dunois’s reassurances close. I glance down at the harried seamstress. “How close are you to having all that you need?”

  “Close enough,” she mumbles around the pins in her mouth. “What I don’t have, I’ll guess.”

  Aeva brightens considerably. “That is a good plan.”

  “You may work on Tola’s gown,” I tell the seamstress. “I will help Aeva out of hers.”

  The seamstress rewards me with a relieved “Thank you, my lady,” before hopping to her feet and hurrying toward the younger Arduinnite.

  Aeva smirks. “Are you my handmaiden now?”

  “Hardly. Step down from the pedestal, you belligerent goose, so I can get at your lacings.”

  I can see by the set of her mouth that she wants to shove me away and claim she can do it on her own, but she cannot. To assuage her wounded pride, I tell her, “It is merely an excuse. I have something I must ask of you.”

  A spark of interest causes her suspicion to recede, and she steps to the floor without further argument. “What?”

  “Turn around so I may tend to your gown.” I give a silent prayer of thanks when she complies. It is hard enough to ask this vexing woman a favor, especially one that is so important to me. I would rather she did not see my face when I do it.

  She pulls her long braid out of my way, exposing the marque of Arduinna at the nape of her neck. My fingers long to touch it and see if it is raised like a brand or merely stained upon the skin. Instead, I begin untying the lacings at her waist. “I request the protection of Arduinna.”

  She starts to turn around to look at me, but I tug on the laces to keep her facing forward. “For yourself?”

  I cannot decide whether I am insulted or flattered by the incredulity in her voice. “No. For my two young sisters. Ismae and I are to accompany the duchess this morning, and I have run out of people I can trust to watch them.”

  “Watch them against whom?”

  “Our brother. He wants custody of them but does not have their best interests at heart.” I can only hope the words I don’t say speak as loudly as the ones I do.

  She turns to face me, her prickliness and animosity gone. “We will gladly help protect them.” Her words are as solemn and binding as an oath.

  My throat tightens in response. “Thank you. Once you are back in your own clothes, I will take you to their chambers.”

  * * *

  Dressed in their short fur robes and leather leggings, bows slung over their shoulders and knives at their hips, Aeva and Tola accompany me to my sisters’ chamber. Lazare and Graelon wait just inside the door.

  Graelon nods a pleasant greeting, but Lazare studies the others with equal parts suspicion and defiance. In the final confrontation between the duchess and France, before the king decided marriage would be the better option than war, many followers of the Nine banded together to aid their country, the Arduinnites and the charbonnerie included. But these two are as prickly as hedgehogs. Having them in the same room together will be like carrying dry grass and tinder in the same bucket and hoping it doesn’t catch fire. “I do not believe you have met before. Aeva and Tola are followers of Arduinna and have agreed to help watch the girls. Aeva and Tola, may I introduce you to Lazare and Graelon, two of the charbonnerie who have not only loyally served the duchess, but are my friends as well.”

  As they study each other with wary eyes, Tola comes to the rescue.

  “That was quite a trick with the cannon fire when the army was at our gates,” she says with true admiration. “I would give much to learn how to do that.”

  Lazare turns to the younger Arduinnite. His lip gives half a curl upward, which for him passes as a smile. “Pretty words won’t pry that secret from me.”

  Tola’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Is that a challenge, charbonnerie?”

  Lazare leans against the doorjamb and folds his arms. “If you care to take it as such.”

  Baring her teeth in what some might call a grin, Aeva leans toward him. “We are up to whatever challenge you care to issue.”

  Lazare blinks lazily, but it does not hide his spark of interest. He is hungry for a challenge, and the Arduinnites are happy to provide it.

  “Excellent.” I nudge Aeva and Tola into the room. “You can compete over who is better at overseeing the safety of my sisters.” By the time I close the door, Lazare is smiling to himself.

  Tephanie hurries forward to greet us, her eyes wide and her mouth open in surprise. “M-my lady. I did not expect you to return so soon.” Although she is speaking to me, her gaze is fixed with fascination upon the other two women’s unusual attire and the bows slung across their shoulders.

  “Louise? Charlotte?” I call out. “I have people I’d like you to meet.”

  Louise jumps to her feet and comes running, while Charlotte follows at a slower pace. Louise stops short when she is close, apparently somewhat taken aback by the appearance of the Arduinnites. Giving the girls a moment to adjust, I perform the introductions.

  When I have finished, Charlotte says, “Are they here to guard us?”

  I glance at her sharply. “If I meant that, I would have said so.” I do not know if she is trying to worry her sister, or poke at my tender places, or if she simply has a natural talent for doing both at the same time.

  Tola squats down in front of Charlotte so that they are nose to nose. “Who do you need guarding from?” There is no mockery or dismissiveness in her manner, which is what wins Charlotte over in the end.

  “Our brother.” Charlotte studies the two women. “Which of you is more skilled with the bow?”

  “Oh ho! You go straight to the heart of the matter, don’t you? Well,” Tola says in a conspiratorial tone, “Aeva would claim that she is, but she would be wrong.” She leans closer to Charlotte and whispers, “I am better.”

  Aeva rolls her eyes and offers her hand to Louise. “Come, let me tell you a story about who is truly better with a bow . . .”

  Shyly, Louise takes her hand and allows herself to be led from my side. As they all make themselves comfortable in front of the fire to better hear Aeva’s story, the constricting tightness around my heart eases a bit. Two of those I love are safe and protected. Now there is only one that I must worry about.

   Chapter 20

  y concern over Beast is like a nagging suitor who will not take no for an answer. It is ardent. Insistent. And wholly invasive.

  I reassure myself that if Pierre had cut Beast down, he would have returned his broken body to me on a platter, but it is thin comfort.

  As I stand behind the duchess while she receives Viscount Rohan in the great hall, I distract myself by turning my worry and anger on the viscount, glowering at him while I run my finger along the edge of my hidden blade. It is easy—so easy—to step back into this fuming anger at the world around me—​like finding a favorite gown I had somehow misplaced. And if it allows me to get under Rohan’s skin, so much the better.

  “I am certain there has been some mistake.” The duchess’s voice does not waver.

  Rohan is of middle years with the look of a lazy, self-indulgent predator who is inclined to let others do the hard work of rounding up his quarry. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. The king has invested the governorship of Brittany in my hands. Effective immediately.”

  He pretends he does not notice my
unrelenting scowl, but I can feel his heart begin to beat faster. Good. He is unnerved by my attention. He gestures to his second in command, who steps forward and holds out a scroll. Duval takes it from him and begins to read.

  The duchess’s face is impassive. “I have placed the duchy under the guidance of Chancellor Montauban. The king did not object nor put forth any other names when we last spoke of it. Not even yours.”

  Rohan tries to shrug as if he is indulging a child, but the movement is too calculated to be truly careless.

  “Where do you plan to reside?” the duchess asks coolly. “You cannot spend nearly so much time at your French holdings as you have this last year.”

  I smile at the veiled rebuke of his collusion with the French. Rohan’s glance flickers in my direction before bowing in acknowledgment of the reprimand, his arrogance wilting somewhat along the edges. “I shall take up residence at my main holding in Josselin.”

  Duval finishes reading, his mouth curving disgust. “The letter does seem to claim Rohan is to be governor of Brittany. It is signed by the king and bears his seal.”

  Duval’s confirmation further inflames my temper. The king promised the duchess one thing, yet within days he has already changed his mind. I cannot help but wonder what other promises will be broken, what other wishes will not be honored. My sisters and I may have the duchess’s protection, but will the king allow her to honor that?

  It feels as if my staunch bastion against Pierre has sustained a crack in its foundation.

  “We shall see,” the duchess says brusquely. “Once I am in France and can discuss this with the king, you can be certain this misunderstanding will be put to rights.”

  Her words are sure and confident, and for a moment Rohan looks nonplussed. Pressing her advantage, the duchess leans forward in her chair. “Remember this. My people have been through much while you were safely retired to your lands in France. You will treat them with a gentle hand and allow them to rebuild their lives, or I myself will ride back at the head of an army to oust you from this office. Do you understand?”

  Rohan forces his features back into their casual arrogance. “But of course, Your Grace.” He must raise his voice to be heard over a rustle of movement toward the back of the room. “My only wish is to serve the interests of you and the king to the best of my ability.”

  Courtiers begin ducking and stepping aside as a small black shape flaps toward the front of the chamber. Still unaware of the disturbance behind him, Rohan gives a shallow bow. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  That is when the bird attacks him.

  With a rushing of wings and a rather desperate caw, a wild-eyed crow with a viciously sharp beak descends upon Rohan. Perfect. The viscount ducks in surprise, the men around him drawing their swords.

  “Stop!” My voice rings out, cutting through the disarray as I step off the dais.

  Rohan tries to maintain his dignity while dodging the wings and beak of the unsettled bird attempting to land on his shoulder. For that is what’s happening, I realize. The crow is exhausted and looking for a place to land. “The creature is attacking me!” Rohan waves his arms to fend it off.

  I step closer, ignoring the drawn swords. “Hold very still, monsieur.” My voice is low and urgent. “This is no ordinary crow, but one sent by the convent of Saint Mortain.”

  Rohan pales and grows motionless. Even though he has spent the last year in France, he is Breton enough to tremble at that name.

  With Rohan no longer waving at him, the crow alights on the man’s shoulder, clinging precariously to the silver fox collar of his doublet.

  Rohan flinches as I take a step closer. “Let’s hope the bird is not an ill omen of this new venture of yours, a warning to turn back.” Suspicion and alarm battle for control of the viscount’s features. “Or worse. He could be a harbinger of your own death.” I whisper the words as lovingly I would as an endearment.

  Rohan is mine now. “Get him off of me!” He means for it to come out as an order, but it sounds more like a plea.

  I am so close now that it looks like Rohan and I are partnering in a dance. His widened eyes follow my hand as I place the back of it on his shoulder.

  The crow eyes me with disdain, as if doubting my wits to think he will fall for such a trick. However, it is not his wits I am counting on, but his hunger. For the last three days I have carried a bit of dried venison in my pocket, waiting for a messenger from Annith. That he happened to arrive during Rohan’s audience with the duchess is the saints’ own luck.

  The crow catches the scent of the treat. When he lunges for it, I clasp his feathered body between my hands, his heart beating frantically as I remove him from Rohan’s shoulder. When I step away, I twist my fingers to give him his treat. He jabs, capturing it in his beak with a triumphant look in his black eyes.

  “You’d best be careful for the next few days,” I warn the viscount. “One never knows what such a messenger can portend.”

  As I leave the room with the crow safely cradled in my hands, I can only hope Rohan was as discomfited by my performance as I was by the news he brought.

   Chapter 21

  hile Ismae escorts the fuming duchess to the solar, I hurry to the chamber that used to serve as office to the abbess when she was in residence. It will be the best place to retrieve the message and read it away from prying eyes.

  I have not set foot inside the room since the former abbess of Saint Mortain was banished. Was it truly only two weeks ago? While it is empty, some faint echo of her presence still remains. Or perhaps it is simply my own animosity toward her and her callous disregard for me or my well-being.

  Nervous and impatient, the crow squawks. I tuck him safely in one of the three empty cages behind the abbess’s desk and trade him another treat from the nearby jar for my message. I march over to the chair and plop myself into it, then stretch my feet up and rest them on the desk. If any remnant of the abbess remains, let us see how she likes that.

  The door opens, and Ismae pokes her head in. Her eyes widen as she takes in the location of my boots, but she says nothing. Wise girl.

  “The duchess said I may come see what Annith had to say.”

  I wave her over, unroll the message, and begin reading.

  Dearest Sybella (and Ismae, who I imagine is reading over your shoulder),

  I cannot help it, I laugh. Ismae nudges me with her elbow. “As if you wouldn’t be reading over my shoulder if it were addressed to me.”

  We arrived at the convent three days ago. As you can imagine, Balthazaar’s appearance has thrown everything into chaos. Truly, it is as if a cat has landed among a flock of pigeons. Sister Beatriz fainted when he was introduced! The older sisters, while less flamboyant, were equally dramatic. Both Sister Vereda and Sister Claude cried openly when they came face-to-face with him.

  The younger girls (and nuns) seem to take his presence more in stride. Aveline and Sarra appear bored by the whole development. Yet when they think no one is watching, I find them staring at him with hungry, resentful eyes. I do not know what it means for their relationship with him, but we will have our hands full while this is all sorted out.

  However, you are leaving for France soon, and I wanted to get this information to you as quickly as I could. The two novitiates I told you about left the convent almost a year before either of you arrived. They were near my age, although I’m afraid I wasn’t close with them—​I was too focused on my training at the time.

  I have spent hours poring through the convent registry, and there is only the smallest reference made to the girls’ departure. I include it below:

  September 1484. Margot and Genevieve left for France today. They are to pose as nieces to one of Duke Francis’s allies, and as such will be tutored at the French court. They will be in position to feed us critical information in a timely manner, and will be available to us should we need to move against the crown. Although we shall do nothing for at least a year or two until they are well and truly est
ablished and beyond suspicion.

  There is no mention made of who the ally was or where he lived. Further, I have found no evidence of any communications of theirs ever being received by the convent, nor any correspondence from us, either directing them to act or giving them instructions.

  There was so little written about them I broke down and asked Sisters Claude and Vereda how the girls were to be contacted, should their services be needed. The answer was most unsatisfactory. When hidden initiates of Mortain are to be called into duty, they are given a crow feather, either by a messenger from the convent or by letter.

  How we are to do that, when we do not know where they are, is unclear to me. I asked Sister Vereda if she has Seen either one of them, but she gave me such a garbled answer that I am certain Balthazaar’s arrival has temporarily deprived her of her wits. The entire strategy is so weak and flawed that we may as well have set the girls adrift on a raft in the open ocean. I fear that they have burrowed deep into the court awaiting instructions that never came. Yet one more thing to lay on the reverend mother’s long list of crimes.

  I do not know how helpful my memories of them will be. Margot had red hair, brown eyes, and freckles. She promised to grow into a woman of great beauty. What I remember most about her was that her gifts from Mortain had not yet appeared—​even at twelve. Since it was the same with me, I took great comfort in that. However, that is not helpful to you.

  Genevieve stands out even less vividly in my mind. Her hair was too light to be brown, but too dark to be blond. She was of average height and well muscled, for she threw herself into her training here. Her face was thin and somewhat fox-shaped, her eyes brown. But that was five years ago. Appearances change so much in those five years between twelve and adulthood! They could now be fat or thin, their hair darker, their faces rounder. There is a good chance they may even have grown taller, since many girls have not reached their full height by that age.