Courting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  He looks down at his desk, but not before I see the pity in his eyes. “You aren’t. The abbess has instructed me to be your permanent legal guardian.”

  Bile rises in my throat, hot and bitter.

  This is not happening. Cannot be happening. My head begins to shake from side to side, an emphatic no. “They will not have so easily dismissed all my years of service. The abbess would call me back to the convent to give me this news herself.”

  He slams his hands on the desk, the sound of it cracking like a whip. “You foolish girl. She is protecting you! If she sent you a message, it would lead the Church fathers right to your door, and you would be subject to the same punishments that they will suffer.” His voice softens. “They are trying to spare you that.” He tosses the letter onto the desk between us. “See for yourself.”

  I stare at him a long moment before allowing my eyes to glance down to the parchment. I immediately recognize the black wax seal of the convent. That at least is real. For the first time, I consider that what he says might be true. If he has proof, then there is nothing left of my life. There is no place for me to go. I carefully unfold the sheet. The handwriting is elegant and graceful, and the missive is signed by the abbess. I force myself to read the words on the page.

  They say exactly what the count has claimed.

  “It is what will happen to all the initiates,” Angoulême says in the face of my continued silence. “Suitable husbands will be found for most. Some might find their way to other convents, although more conventional ones under the Church’s purview.”

  “What of the abbess? The nuns? Many are past marriageable age.” In truth, most were flatly against marriage to any man.

  He shrugs. “They are not my concern. You are.”

  I feel as if I will be sick. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means I am to arrange a suitable marriage for you.”

  His words are all the more upsetting for their sincerity. He truly believes he is doing what is best for me, and being gracious in the process. “But I have no wish to marry.”

  “Are you sure? There are any number of men among my court that would make a good husband, and your charms have not gone unnoticed, Genevieve. I will even let you pick.”

  His generosity is a surprise. I would have expected him to use this to his advantage. More than before, I am at his mercy. I must get out of here and find someplace to think through the full implications of this. “Thank you, but marriage was never something I aspired to.”

  He leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “Other arrangements can be made.” The look in his eyes makes his meaning perfectly clear.

  “No, my lord.” My voice is not angry or bitter or defiant. “I will not follow in Margot’s footsteps.” I will not step into that snare.

  Something in his manner shifts. “Am I so very repulsive? Have I not shown you kindness and a life of ease and luxury?”

  That I do not want this life, that I do not want him, has wounded his pride.

  “My lord, you already have many women who seek nothing more than to cater to your every desire. I cannot offer you anything they do not. And you yourself have said I am stubborn and contrary.”

  He smiles, a slow, unsettling gesture. “Perhaps that is why I desire you? I have never been with anyone as . . . contrary and stubborn as you, that is certain. You know I am fond of you.” He leans forward, planting his elbows on the table, growing serious again. “I can grant you many things—​safety, shelter, a home, a rich and luxurious life with no hardship.”

  He is utterly sincere, thinking he offers me my every wish on an engraved silver platter. “Thank you for your most gracious offer, my lord, but I shall pass.”

  There is a long moment of silence in which he studies me with an assessing quality that only increases my unease. “Genevieve, you should think long and hard about refusing my offer.” He picks up his wine and takes a sip, drawing the moment out. “It is not like you have anywhere else to go.”

  His words so closely mirror Margot’s that it is all I can do not to flinch. “I will find something, my lord.” For all the tumult inside, my voice comes out firm and steady.

  He sets the wine down abruptly. “Tell me, how do you think the regent would react to learning that your mother was a common tavern whore?”

  His words are like an ax that cleaves the earth from my feet. Margot betrayed me.

  At the convent, we were taught that our birth stories are among our most precious possessions. Each of our stories carried the history of how we came to be marqued for His service. They were sacred. And Margot told Angoulême. She betrayed my secrets. Bile fills my throat again, and this time I fear I will retch all over the count’s fine carpet.

  “So are you a whore, my dear?”

  The word in his mouth is hard and ugly, and I want to snatch it from his tongue. He uses it to shame me, to shame my mother and my aunts, but they are not deserving of his—​or anyone’s—​disdain.

  It is the very reason I hold my family origins so close. Not because I am ashamed, but because I cannot bear the way the world sees them. Some long-­forgotten part of me rises up and takes control of my body. I place one hand on the chair in front of me and wave the other in the air. “La, my lord! You know how fond Margot was of telling stories.” The words skip nimbly off my tongue, as if that long-forgotten part of me knows precisely what to do.

  He studies me for a moment, then stares down at the wine in his cup. “I wonder if this is one of her stories. It has the ring of truth in it to me.”

  I force all the fury I possess to burn away my fear till it is naught but a faint metallic tang in my belly. “Truly, my lord?” I fold my hands in front of me and tilt my head. “Is that why I have worked so hard to avoid your advances? Why I pray so fervently in the chapel twice a day? Is that what is behind my utter devotion to the countess? Not to mention the convent?”

  He shrugs again, but there is a faint crease of doubt between his eyes.

  “Margot was a great liar. We all know that.”

  He scowls. “She did not appear so to me.”

  “Is that because she told you she loved you?” I ask sweetly. “Ah, I see by your face that she did. Well, she did not. It was a lie. She grew to love this soft life rather than the convent and its purpose and became your mistress to advance her financial security and position.”

  He shoves his chair back, as if needing to put distance between himself and my words.

  “Did she claim you were a fine lover as well? Another lie. She told me of your huffing and puffing, your soft belly and graying hairs.” I lean forward confidentially. “Did she also tell you that you were her first lover? Yet another lie. He was a knight at Amboise. Young and firmly muscled, with shoulders so broad they nearly blocked out the sun. And his sword was as long and as skilled as they come.” Each word I speak is like a blow, so that when I am finished, he will feel as if he has been pummeled into the wall behind him. “Besides, are not all women whores to you, my lord? And what of you? You sleep with every woman between fourteen and forty who crosses your path! What would you call that?”

  He smiles thinly and without humor. “I am not paid to sleep with them.”

  “No? Did Louise not bring a pretty dowry to this marriage? Was that not required in order for you to consummate it? How is that different from what a whore charges?”

  He slams both his palms on his desk and rises to his feet. “You forget yourself!”

  I step forward and lean into his space, nearly pressing my nose against his. “No. You forget yourself. No matter who my mother was or was not, I was sired by the god of Death, and you will be wise to remember that.” Without giving him a chance to respond—​or mayhap I’m afraid I will reach across the desk and strangle him—​I turn and stride toward the door.

  “Stop!”

  Out of habit, I obey, my hand poised above the latch as I look over my shoulder. He leans forward in his chair, his eyes hard. “You do know that
the punishment for masquerading as nobility is death?”

  I grit my teeth and turn to face him. “And who aided me in that masquerade, my lord? I wonder what the punishment for that would be?”

  “I would tell them that you lied and deceived me as well.”

  “And I would produce this”—​I wave the message from the convent—​“to prove that I did not.”

  His nostrils are pinched white and his muscles bunched. For a moment I fear he will leap up from his chair and wrest it from my hands. But instead he shrugs. “It will not come to that. You have had a shock, especially on top of your recent loss.” The pity in his voice makes me want to claw at his face. “I will not press you, but when I return after Christmas, I expect you to have come to terms with this new arrangement.”

  In answer, I yank open the door, step through it, and then slam it behind me so hard that the latch rattles in its case.

   Chapter 26

  y rage is a living beast, driving me down the corridor, my steps so heavy it is a wonder the stone does not crack beneath my feet.

  Margot has betrayed me.

  The convent has betrayed me.

  In truth, even Mortain has betrayed me, or how else can all the roads I’ve taken, all the lessons I’ve learned, all the skills I’ve acquired, put me right back on a path that leads to my mother’s life? One for which she sacrificed much so I would not have to share it.

  It is the most twisted, cruel, ironic fate I can imagine, and I cannot decide who is most to blame.

  Margot betrayed years of friendship and sisterhood in exchange for . . . what? A garnet necklace? A position as the count’s favorite? A softer life? I do not believe her claim that the convent ordered her to do it. I cannot allow myself to believe it.

  The memory of what the convent itself has just done surges up again, nearly choking me. This is not something I ever expected to feel again—​the pain of having those I cared most for trade me away.

  When I finally reach the safety of my room, I bolt the door firmly behind me before storming over to the one small window and shoving aside the curtains.

  I hold the letter up to the weak sunlight and inspect it more closely. It is the official black wax, the correct seal. The handwriting looks right, although in truth, I have never seen the abbess’s handwriting, so I would not recognize it. But it is her name, and the formal language used is much the way she would talk. There are no flaws or signs of forgery.

  Besides, what would Angoulême gain by forging this? Eventually the convent would learn of it, and it would take a braver, bolder man than he to risk crossing those who worship Death.

  Which means that this is what the convent truly wishes.

  Rutting figs. They cannot do this to me. I will not let them. No one, not even Mortain Himself, gets to keep me on a leash for the rest of my life. Besides, if they have disbanded, how will they even enforce such an order?

  This realization gives me room to breathe. And in that small space comes a second realization. Many fates hang in the balance. How many other girls—​many younger than I—​will find themselves in hastily arranged marriages that they have not chosen? And how many of them came to the convent precisely because they or their mothers wanted to avoid those marriages?

  What will happen to Sister Beatriz, with her silly, pigeon-headed ideas of how to seduce a man? Not to mention ancient Claude and her aching joints, or Sister Vereda, the even older blind seeress. Where are they to go? No man would have them. Nor even one of the Christian convents.

  For all that this letter enrages me about my own fate, it also spells disaster for the entire convent. All the emotions that have been threatening to boil over for the last three days distill down into a black, hardened mass. If they think to strike a bargain over my future without my consent or agreement, they have sorely misjudged me.

  A knock at the door startles me out of my reverie. “Demoiselle Genevieve?” It is the steward. “The count has requested your presence at dinner, my lady. It is his last night here before he leaves.”

  My hands clench. I will not sit in the great hall pretending to be merry and joyful. I glance around me, looking for some excuse to send him away. But there is nothing.

  He knocks on the door again. “Demoiselle? I know you are in there.”

  “I am sorry,” I call out as my gaze lands on the washbasin. “I am ill.”

  There is a long pause. “I don’t think the count will accept that. He is most insistent that you join him.”

  I grab the basin and move to stand near the door. “It is impossible.” I stare at my fingers, take a deep breath, then jam one of them down my throat—​a trick Sister Serafina taught me when I accidentally drank one of her potions instead of the tonic she had prepared for my cough.

  I gag, but that is all. I shove again, this time farther down, and am relieved when my entire guts begin to turn themselves inside out. It is not a quiet thing.

  “Oh.” I can almost feel the steward back away from the door. “I will tell the count you are truly ill. Would you like something sent up? A broth, perhaps?”

  “No thank you. I do not think I could keep anything down right now.”

  I heave and retch once more just to convince him, shuddering as I place the basin in a far corner of the room. If the count himself appears at my door, I will simply hand it to him and send him on his way.

  Angoulême’s peremptory summons crystallizes what I will do. Must do. I am leaving, I want to shout triumphantly at the steward’s retreating footsteps.

  The decision is as sure as an arrow finding its mark.

  I do not know where I will go or how I will get there or what I will do when I arrive. Only that I will search out new choices for myself. Ones that do not involve the count or marriage or a room above a tavern.

  I will be alone—​out in the world without the protection of the convent or the patina of the French court. Or even a friend by my side.

  No. I do not need friends. They are a heartbreak waiting to happen. That I would even wish for a friend after what Margot did to me proves I have let myself become soft—​too comfortable.

  That is the first thing I must fix.

   Chapter 27

  Sybella

  he hardest part of the day’s travels is remembering all the things I am no longer supposed to do now that I am headed for France. I do not ride up to the head of the line to speak with Beast, not even when we have to wait for nearly an hour while a felled tree is removed from the road.

  I do not draw my weapons as we wait, or even finger my knives. I restrain myself from riding back to the litter to check on Louise and Charlotte and see how they are faring, although I wish to nearly every half hour. Most impressively, I refrain from drawing my weapons every time we pass a village and an entire flock of villagers comes rushing forward, eager to cheer their duchess and throw flower petals and small gifts in her path.

  All things considered, it is far more exhausting than a full day of hard riding would have been. By the time we can see the thick stone towers of Châteaubriant castle jutting up against the sky, my soul is exhausted and my body restless.

  We circle the moat that protects the outer wall until we come to the barbican, then pass through the tall, narrow space—​barely wide enough for the largest of our wagons to fit. It is so narrow that it feels like a trap, and it is all I can do to keep my hands calmly on the reins.

  Once we have crossed the bailey and are in the courtyard, the sensation passes.

  But too soon. Standing on the castle step dressed in red velvet and a fur-lined cloak is the king’s own sister, the regent herself, bane of Brittany’s existence.

  Unease skitters across my shoulders.

  The regent’s greeting is gracious and polite; she kisses the duchess upon each cheek. “Be welcome,” she says with a pleasant smile.

  The duchess returns her smile coolly. “Thank you for your hospitality, Madame Regent.” The irony is not lost on her that the regent is welcoming
her to one of Brittany’s own castles that France’s troops nearly destroyed in the Mad War.

  “I believe you know my lord husband, the Duke of Bourbon?”

  The Duke of Bourbon is soft-looking and somewhat chinless, which balances nicely with the regent. She has plenty of chin for them both. The duke takes the duchess’s hand and bows over it. “Welcome, my dear.” There is a true kindness in his face. His lack of artifice and his genuineness provide a stark contrast to his wife.

  Beside the regent and the Duke of Bourbon stands another man. He is tall, although stooped and thin. His flesh hangs loosely off his face, as if he has been ill. Something about him feels familiar to me, although I cannot place it.

  “And, Your Grace,” the regent says, “you know well the Duke of Orléans.”

  Her words have me gaping like a fish, but the duchess’s look of joy chases away my disbelief. If she feels the same shock I do at the change in his appearance, she hides it well.

  It has been seven years since I saw him, but he has aged at least twenty. He was taller then, square-jawed and renowned for his prowess at hunting and jousting. Now he does not look as if he could manage to hold a lance with both hands.

  After he had been captured in the final battle of the Mad War between France and the late duke of Brittany, rumors circulated that he was kept in a cage so small he could not stand and fed naught but bread and water for months on end. I had dismissed them. D’Orléans is next in line for the throne should anything happen to King Charles, and I could not believe either the regent or the king would treat a Prince of the Blood in such a way.

  But I was wrong, and every word appears true. Next to him, the regent glitters like a bright red jewel in the falling dusk, and I am grateful she no longer considers the duchess her enemy.

  * * *

  The Duke and Duchess of Bourbon could not have provided a more gracious welcome. The light of a hundred candles sparkles brightly against the silver, gold, and crystal on the lavishly set table. The sideboards groan under the weight of roasts of beef and venison, the savory smell of fine herbs mingling with the sharp, fruity scent of wine.