Throughout it all, the duchess sits between the regent and the Duke of Orléans, talking happily with him, for they are old friends. There had even been rumors of a match between them, but there were too many obstacles, the primary one being Orléans’s wife. She is sister to the regent and the king, and the French crown would have fought any attempt at an annulment. His presence is a welcome olive branch.
After a long but pleasant meal, we finally retire to our chambers. Before I have even begun to undress the duchess, there is a knock at the door. She sets her jaw firmly and squares her shoulders. “Enter,” she calls out.
The door opens, and Madame Regent steps into the room, followed by the Duke of Bourbon, and the Duke of Orléans. She closes the door firmly behind her. “Your Grace, I trust your accommodations are to your liking.”
“They are, Madame Regent.”
My mind struggles to guess the purpose of their visit. The regent glances briefly in my direction. “Is there anyone else you wish to have with you?”
“No.” The duchess’s chin comes up a little higher, and a sense of dread begins seeping into the room. The sympathetic expression on the Duke of Bourbon’s soft face adds to my unease.
“Your Grace?” I ask softly, hoping she will inform me what is going on.
The regent spares me a brief glance. “We are here for the premarital inspection. Out of courtesy for her rank and a desire to be tactful, we agreed to wait until she’d left her own holding and conduct it here, but it will be conducted before the wedding can take place.”
The force of my revulsion robs me of caution. “The legal contract has already been agreed to and signed,” I protest. “Surely this is not necessary.”
“This was stipulated in the contract,” she answers coolly. “We must determine if she can produce an heir.”
As if such things can be ascertained by a public examination. Outrage erupts, burning away the day’s fledgling caution. “Did Madame have such an examination prior to her marriage?” My voice is polite and courteous, my words covered in the finest silk.
“Of course not. But it was not my duty to produce an heir for the kingdom.” The sharpness in her tone gives me pause. The last thing I want to do is draw unwelcome attention to myself—especially from her.
She turns to the duchess, frowning. “This cannot be a surprise to you.”
The duchess is pale, but maintains her regal composure. “No, but that does not make it any more palatable. And I was not expecting such a large audience.”
Something ugly, like an eel slithering in the murk of a pond, darts across the regent’s face. “There must be witnesses. The matter of an heir is far too important to leave to my judgment alone.” Her eyes are overwide, her tone more self-deprecating than the comment warrants. I glance over at the Duke of Orléans, whose stoop is even more pronounced as he tries to make himself nearly invisible.
That is when my wits finally catch up. The regent, profoundly aware of the late duke of Brittany’s hope to foster a union between these two, wishes to punish them for it.
Her revenge is so nuanced and diabolical I can scarce wrap my mind around it.
She will punish Orléans for daring to consider putting her sister aside ten years ago. It does not matter that when he was only fourteen, the old king vowed to cut off the heads of his advisors, sew him into a sack, and toss it into a river if he did not agree to the marriage. His mother finally gave in, but Orléans never agreed and has always claimed he was coerced.
The layers of humiliation the regent has woven together are truly astounding. With one brief action, she will remind Orléans of all that he can never have, punish the duchess for her father’s grand ambition, and heap further humiliation on her.
By forcing Orléans to be complicit in this degradation, there is a very good chance that their fondness will turn to hate. Or at least mortification, thus forcing a permanent wedge between them. Even though any chance of them marrying has long since passed, the regent is now ensuring they will never be allies, or even comfortable with each other, ever again. These few minutes will bear bitter fruit for years to come, and all out of the regent’s spite.
“Now,” she continues, “the sooner we do this, the sooner it will be behind you. Disrobe, please.”
I clench my fists in frustration. Where are the duchess’s great protectors from the Privy Council now? “At least let us stoke up the fire and have a robe ready,” I suggest. “Unless it is your goal to have Her Grace catch an ague, rather than simply force her to parade naked before strangers.”
For the first time since entering the room, the regent turns her full attention on me. Careful, I warn myself. Up until this point, I have been naught but a piece of furniture. The duchess reaches out and gently touches my arm. “That is a good idea to stoke the fire,” she says. “It has grown cold in here.”
I seethe across the room to the large fireplace, grab the poker, and stab at the lazily burning logs until they erupt into orange and yellow flames. My feeling of helplessness grows as I fetch the duchess’s fur-lined robe from the large chest and lay it on the bed.
When I return to the duchess, she presents her back to me. Her grim determination is coupled with a sense of embarrassment so great it borders on shame.
She does not have the emotional armor to protect herself from this vile woman’s devious machinations, but I do. I was raised in precisely such a nest of diabolical vipers. I can draw some of the sting from this wound the regent is trying to inflict.
Although by protecting the duchess, I risk alienating the regent. She is not an enemy I or my sisters can afford.
But to truly honor the vow I made to her, I must I lend her my armor until she forms her own. To do otherwise reeks too much of craven self-servitude. I lean in close to the duchess. “It will help if you picture them naked,” I whisper as I unlace her bodice.
She emits a muffled gasp. Encouraged, I lower my voice further. “And,” I add as I slip her gown from her shoulders, “I believe the Duke of Bourbon’s doublet is padded to make his chest appear larger than his belly.”
She says nothing, but the corner of her mouth lifts.
When there is finally a ghost of a smile on her face, I pull the linen undergown over her head so that she stands completely naked in front of these strangers. But at least she is thinking of their nakedness instead of her own.
“She is small,” the Duke of Bourbon suggests, almost apologetically. “But soundly built.”
“It is the width of her hips that most concerns me,” the regent replies, tilting her head. “Turn around, if you please.”
To keep from saying something foolish, I grab the duchess’s robe from the bed, nearly crushing it in my fingers.
Keeping her eyes straight ahead, the duchess does as instructed.
“Wait. What was that? Did she limp?”
“Yes,” the duchess says. “My shoes are made to hide the fact, but it is no secret.”
I put my finger to my chin and make as if studying the matter. “Is the length of one’s legs known to facilitate breeding?”
The regent casts a cool gaze upon me. “Who are you?”
I sink into a deep curtsy. “Lady Sybella, Madame.”
Her attention remains on me a moment longer before she turns back to the duchess. “It is important that no flaws pass to the king’s heir.”
I press my teeth into my tongue to keep from pointing out that the king’s other sister has precisely this type of limp—although from all accounts that is only one of her ailments. It is why the match with Orléans was so devious. By marrying him to a daughter whose afflictions rendered her unable to bear children, the king could ensure the crown had no challenge from the Orléans branch.
The regent orders the duchess to walk to the far wall. With a surprising degree of composure and grace, the duchess begins to traverse the room.
Everyone’s eyes are on her: Bourbon’s are soft and compassionate. Orléans’s are full of apologies, regret, an
d a desire to be anywhere but here. But the regent’s—ah, they are not only cool and assessing, but gleaming with triumph as well.
My hand longs to smack that triumph from her face. I do not want to merely shield the duchess, but to brandish a sword on her behalf. I close my eyes and remind myself of all the reasons I should not. But when I open them again, all I can see is the duchess, head raised proudly, cheeks pink with shame, eyes bright with unshed tears.
I direct a sweet, bland smile to the regent. “Perhaps when she’s finished parading before you, you’d like to examine her teeth,” I suggest. “I know our master of horse always insisted on seeing those before adding any new additions to our stable.”
The regent sends a basilisk glare at me that would turn a lesser woman to stone, and the Duke of Bourbon’s chin recedes even further. But I do not so much as flinch. Still staring at me, the regent addresses her words to the duchess. “You may come back now.”
I tilt my head and crease my brow with concern. “Tell me, has the king had such an examination?”
Someone—the Duke of Bourbon?—swallows a gasp. The vein in the regent’s temple pulses slightly. “Your suggested criticism of the king flirts dangerously close to treason, mademoiselle.”
Because I want to spit my words at her like stones, I keep my voice soft and respectful. “On the contrary, Madame. Like you, I wish only the best for the crown of France.”
Her nostrils flare in irritation, and I experience a moment of grim satisfaction.
The Duke of Orléans speaks into the tense silence. “I think Her Grace may put her clothes back on now,” he says.
Throwing him a grateful look, I step forward and drape the thick robe around the duchess’s shoulders, pulling it tightly closed. She is shaking. Although I do not think it is from cold, I draw her near to the fire all the same.
“Have you gotten all that you came for?” I ask.
The regent’s lips thin, whether at my implied dismissal or the suggestion that she had complex and ugly motives for this visit, I cannot tell.
“Her Grace is exhausted after her long day’s travel,” I continue. “If you have everything you need, I would like to see to her comfort.”
“I believe everything is in order.” The regent’s voice is stiff and formal. “We will proceed with the wedding.” She turns a disapproving eye to me before nodding at her husband to open the door. As they file out of the room, she pauses. “I am afraid I will not be here in the morning to see you off. There are still many pressing preparations to be made for this most joyous occasion.” Her smile of delight is so perfectly performed that I would have believed her with all my heart if not for the last hand span of minutes. “However, there will be an escort of the king’s guard to accompany you.”
“But of course, Madame Regent,” the duchess says. “We can see to ourselves from here. Thank you for your hospitality.” She meets the older woman’s gaze blandly, disconcerting her, I think.
“Stupid sow,” I mutter, once they have all left.
“Lady Sybella!” The duchess’s shock is tempered by the illicit thrill in her voice.
I remove her cloak from her shoulders and slip her nightgown over her head. “You are too polite, Your Grace, to ever think or say such things, so as your loyal attendant it is my duty to say them for you.”
Her mouth turns up in a reluctant grin. “Your devotion to your obligations is duly noted.” Then her formality falls away and she gapes at me like a young girl. “Truly, I have never seen anyone so bold! By my count, you bested her in that exchange at least twice.”
“Three times,” I correct her, twitching the delicate linen into place around her hips.
She turns around to face me, her expression serious. “But please, do not put yourself in harm’s way on my account. If the regent were to take a dislike to you—”
“I think we can safely assume that she has,” I say dryly.
“She might encourage me to remove you from my service. Who would cheer me through such travails then? Not that she would succeed,” she hastens to add. “I would just prefer to have as few battles with her as possible.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not—”
“Hush.” The duchess grabs my hand. “I could not have survived the ordeal if not for your barbed wit. I just wish you to have a care for yourself, that is all.”
It is too late for that, I want to tell her. I have drawn both the regent’s attention and her ire, and she is not the sort of woman to forget such a thing.
Chapter 28
Genevieve
hen I return to the oubliette, I bear not only food, but a plan. If I do not feed the prisoner, he will die, and I am not ready to consign him to that fate. But the secrets I once shared with him in the dark make the edges of my skin curdle with embarrassment. I may as well have left a weapon out in the open and expected no one to use it. I took all those risks, but got nothing out of it. That is about to change. The prisoner will have to earn his keep.
I come in a series of trips, hauling buckets of water, a hook, and extra torches. I also bring a clean set of clothes that I pilfered from one of Angoulême’s men-at-arms, leaving a small coin where his pile of clothes had been.
When I have finished all my hauling, I set one of the torches in a bracket on the wall.
“Who’s there?” The haunted quality is back in his voice, and I realize I have not visited—or fed him—in over four days.
I grit my teeth. I owe him nothing. I yank open the latch, then hoist the grate open, its rusty hinges screeching like a wounded hawk.
“Water,” I call down, lowering the bucket.
“It is you. I have been worr—”
“The water is for washing.” My voice is harder than the iron bars of his prison. “Once you are clean, there are new clothes.” Making an unnecessary amount of clatter so that further speech is impossible, I lower the other bucket, along with the bundle of clothes and a sack of food.
In the thick silence that follows, I feel him observing me through the darkness. After a moment, he begins to rummage through the bundles. A faint shout of triumph that sounds vaguely like the word “Soap!” is accompanied by the splash of water.
Even though I cannot see a thing, I shove to my feet and walk a dozen paces away. I am not squeamish about naked men, but nor do I want to foster the sense of intimacy of sharing a bath.
As he washes, I light one of the extra torches and explore the six rooms that branch off the main antechamber. Two of them have locks with keys and are empty except for a wooden bucket and a thin mattress of straw. The others contain barrels of oil and wine, vats of tallow, furs and antlers from some long-forgotten hunt, old benches, wall hangings, suits of armor, and moth-eaten rugs no longer being used; I quickly lose interest.
As I pace, I run my hands over the weapons I have brought. I have Margot’s stiletto, in addition to my own dagger and a short sword a passing man-at-arms traded me for a kiss. Such a mutton-headed trade on his part. Although I suspect he was hoping for more than a kiss.
When enough time has passed, I return to the oubliette. “I am coming down now.” I light the third torch and prop it carefully next to the opening. Then I knot the rope at the base of the grate, grab ahold of it, and lower myself into the pit, careful to avoid the flame from the torch.
At first, the opening is narrow enough that I am able to brace my feet against the opposite wall, but it quickly opens up into a larger space so that I am forced to wrap my feet around the rope.
The light from the torch does only a feeble job of illuminating the murk. The oubliette is small, with barely enough room for two people to stand with their arms spread. Even though it is so dark I must squint to see into the corners of the room, the prisoner holds one arm across his eyes, protecting them from the dim light. The lower half of his face sports a matted beard. Behind him is a pile of old, moldy straw and in the far corner is a hole. They have not given him so much as a pot to piss in.
&nbs
p; When my feet reach the solidness of the stone floor, I let go of the rope and slip my fingers around the hilt of my knife, although I keep it hidden in the folds of my skirts.
The prisoner is tall, and while thin from lack of food, his shoulders are broad. His exercises and diet of rat have paid off.
Slowly, hesitatingly, he pulls his arm a few inches from his face. His eyes are still braced against the light, but I get my first look at him. His hair is long and wet from its recent washing. The beard obscures the shape of his mouth and set of his chin, but his nose is straight and not overly large.
When his eyes finally adjust, we study each other warily. “So you are the voice in the dark.” There is a note of reverence in his words that I do not deserve. “I wondered what you would look like. Wondered if you were even attached to a body.”
I lift my chin, my face cold and wooden. “I do not know what you are talking about, but you are wrong. I have never been here before.” My voice is as hard as the stone walls that surround us. “Whatever you thought you saw or imagined you heard was likely the product of a mind enfeebled by long captivity. Imprisonment will do that to a man.”
The scowl that appears on his face gives him a wild, animal quality. “Surely my enfeebled mind did not produce the food that sustained me for these last weeks. Nor the water, nor the voice that pulled me from the brink of madness.”
I steel my heart against his angry confusion. If his wits are fraying at the edges, his memory will be easy to manipulate. “Perhaps your jailors brought you the food, or you simply ate rotted straw and skinny rats and thought them a feast. I know not, but you and I have never met before.” As far as I am concerned, our past conversations never happened. Our secrets were never shared. No bond was ever formed. If he cannot accept this most basic truth, we have nothing further to talk about. I stare at him with all the iron I have in me.
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