“I am fine, my lady, but thank you.”
My satisfaction at turning the conversation from my own grief is short-lived. “Did the count have an opportunity to speak to you before he left?”
I am so taken aback by her frank question that the needle I am threading slips and pricks my finger. “About what, my lady?”
In answer, she reaches out and gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. “About your position in the household. He is a kind man and will treat you well.”
Unable to help myself, I gape at her. There is no guile or ill will in her manner, and I marvel at that. Angoulême set her aside when Margot came to his bed, and now she is encouraging me to follow in her footsteps. “I know that well, Madame, but this is a particular kindness I do not wish.”
“It will not ruin your prospects for a good marriage. Chances are, your future husband will not even know.”
I do not tell her I have no intention of marrying. “While that may well be true, I don’t wish to begin life with a new husband with so big a lie between us.”
“You are a very pious girl. You and Louise are much alike in that.”
Unable to help myself, I look over to Louise, who sits at the other end of the room, talking with Lady Alinor. “Does that not strike you as . . . odd? That two friends should share one man?” In truth, I do not understand why their arrangement does not bother Louise more, given her own piety and general envy.
Jeanne shrugs, a graceful gesture. “Louise and I are friends. Besides.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “I think Louise benefitted somewhat from my time with the count.”
My mouth quirks at this most practical of benefits. In that moment, Jeanne reminds me so much of my aunt Fabienne that it hurts. She, too, was beautiful and sophisticated, for all that she was a tanner’s daughter and worked out of a tavern. She always managed to find something in life to be amused about, whether it was a patron’s tastes or the way the tavern cat stuck its tongue out while sleeping.
Seeing my smile, Jeanne raises her eyebrows playfully. “Who is to say that your husband would not appreciate a wife who knew how to please him in bed?”
I see how Louise and the count benefit from this arrangement. “But what do you get out of it?”
She grows serious and purses her lips. For a moment, I imagine I see a look of pain flit across her face, but then it is gone. “What is important is that no matter where his interest moves, once you have been one of his favorites, you will always have a home among his court. You will not want for anything—food, shelter, fine clothes. Any child you have will be taken care of and educated. You will have a powerful man on your side. Your future is assured, and you will always have a place to call home.”
So that is what she gains. Even though she is married to someone else, the count mitigates the absolute power her own husband can wield over her. Gives her a second avenue of security. My appreciation for her cunning grows. “Thank you, my lady, for your counsel. I will think on it.”
For weeks, it has felt like a net is closing in all around me, trying to bind me to a life I do not want. But perhaps it is not a net at all. The prisoner’s claims that I had been sent by the gods to rescue him felt arrogant. But when placed beside my conversation with Jeanne, it begins to feel like a steppingstone.
With the disbanding of the convent, something important and sacred will be destroyed. But more than that, young innocent lives will be irrevocably altered. Possibly ruined.
What if my destiny is to change that?
As I stitch, I think of the king and his invitation to his bed when I was at the French court. Like Angoulême, he vowed to grant my every desire. That I would want for nothing. At the time I thought it but a brash boast of his ability to see to my every physical desire, which, raised as I was, was hard not to laugh at. But when still I demurred, he pressed further, promising to grant any gift or favor I wished for. At the time, there was nothing I wanted that he could give me.
My needle stills and a warm trickle of possibility spreads through my limbs. But now, now there is something I very much wish. Something only he can grant. I want the convent to be allowed to continue its existence. It is not even a difficult or expensive wish.
I have always believed I had a purpose, that Mortain planned to use me as an instrument of His will, whether that be weapon or spy. Even now, I am certain there is still some larger role I am meant to play, especially as these tenuous threads of a plan begin to weave themselves together.
I alone among all the daughters of Mortain have captured the interest of the very king who is threatening to destroy His convent and those who worship Him. And I alone have been raised among women whose livelihood is to please men, ease their lust, and see to their desires.
What if that is my great purpose? What if I have been uniquely fashioned by both my god and fate to be the one person who can avert this tragedy from befalling the convent?
Could that be the destiny the gods have planned for me? If not sent to the convent of Saint Mortain, I would never have been sent to the French court and gotten near enough to the king to catch his eye. If I had not caught his eye, he would never have promised me my heart’s desire.
It has always puzzled me that I attracted his notice and not some great beauty, like Margot. I did not engage in games of flirtation with him or any of the courtiers. He had a carefully selected stable of powdered and perfumed young women just waiting for such an invitation from him.
And yet he wanted me.
What if that is all due to some plan of the gods? What if that is why my path crossed with the prisoner—so he could show me that? For it still makes no sense that I could feel his heartbeat if he was not dying.
Examining the events in that light makes everything of a piece. Almost.
I am also to serve the duchess of Brittany—now the new queen. How does sleeping with the king honor that?
I glance over at Louise, the conversation with Jeanne still buzzing in my ears. Louise does not mind. Indeed, even benefits from it. In truth the queen’s own father kept his mistress and his wife side by side. According to the gossip at the French court, the queen’s bastard brother was one of her closest advisors. This is the way noble marriages work. The new queen knows that as intimately as anyone.
Besides, she has an obligation to honor the Nine and protect those who follow them. If something has prevented her from doing that, then she will no doubt be grateful to the one who does it for her.
And . . . I realize, my heart beating faster, in saving the convent, I can prove to them how wrong they were to keep me idle all these years. I will have the satisfaction of showing them their mistake in not using me sooner. In not trusting me, in not honoring the contract we made.
By saving them, I will gain their gratitude and their respect. And when they are restored to their former mission and purpose, my name will be first upon their lips.
The idea settles into the hollow place inside me. It does not fill it completely, but it is no longer as empty as it once was. If the size and edges of it do not fit perfectly, surely that is due to my own misguided expectations of what a true purpose would feel like.
Besides, the convent’s lessons and guidance are rarely painless, or even comfortable. Why would this be any different?
Chapter 40
Sybella
am allowed into the bedchamber long enough to help the duchess undress. Tension radiates off of her like a plucked bowstring. In order to give her as much time as possible to come to terms with this new development, I send the other attendants off to fetch the delicate nightshift that has been prepared especially for tonight, and steer the duchess—the queen, I correct myself—to the edge of the bed. “Here, let me remove your headdress for you.” She turns, exposing the vulnerable column of her neck. “I must start calling you Your Majesty now.”
“I should embrace that title. It is one of the highest offices a woman can possess.” Her voice sounds as if it is coming from far away. As if s
he has already hidden her true self from what will soon transpire. “And yet, I find I am sorely reluctant to give up my title of duchess. In my own mind and heart, that is who I will always be, the duchess of Brittany, only assuming the title of queen in order to protect my people and my land.”
I gently tug her hair to loosen it from its coil. “That you have done, Your Majesty.”
She nods woodenly. As I begin unlacing her wedding gown, I try to think of something I can say to ease this for her. “Tomorrow morning when you appear in public again, most of these lords and ladies and courtiers will still be abed, sleeping off their wine-filled bellies and late-night excesses. You will likely not have to see any of them again for a long while. At least not until after your honeymoon.”
The tension in her shoulders eases. “That is true.”
The attendants return, laughing and giggling and bearing a shift of the finest Holland cloth with lace as delicate as a spider’s webbing. I fall silent while the others slip it over her head, one of them poking her in the ribs in their haste.
At the queen’s gasp of surprise, the young woman falls prostrate on the floor.
The queen and I stare at her in astonishment before the queen says, “Peace. I will not punish you. But perhaps it would be best to see to the readying of the bed. All of you.” The grateful young woman rises to her feet and hurries away with the others, more subdued now.
“Oh, well done, Your Majesty.”
“I will take a jab in the ribs if I can barter it for a few moments of privacy,” she says wryly.
In silence, I brush her hair until it shines in the glow of the candles. I wish—desperately—for something to give her to make this easier—some charm or potion or clever advice, but I have nothing. Instead, I press my lips briefly upon the top of her head as I would one of my own sisters. “You are a queen, born and bred. Your strength, your grace, your love of your people—those are what define you, not this performance the regent demands of you. Tonight will quickly be forgotten, but your child on the throne will be a part of history forever.”
She rests her head for a moment against my cheek before motioning to the other ladies that she is ready.
* * *
When I close the chamber door behind me, every move is controlled, precise. I calmly fold my hands before me and keep my face arranged in pleasant lines as I move toward the crowd in the main salon. The regent has made it clear—she is no friend to the duchess, but her enemy.
Is the king complicit in this or oblivious? I cannot fathom the doting man who paid court to the duchess, nor even the reserved chivalrous king I saw tonight, countenancing these humiliations, but perhaps he is far more skilled at subterfuge than he looks. Or more fully under his sister’s influence.
My stomach churns at how foul a place men have made the world—aided by the women who blindly adhere to their rules. The regent has more power than any woman in France. It would be so easy for her to soften the way for others. That she does not feels like the rankest of betrayals.
My steps bring me to the Breton contingent, gathered among themselves and talking quietly together. As I approach, they look up. Chancellor Montauban sees something in my face and takes a tiny step back. “Did you know?” I demand, my fists clenched.
He wisely refrains from asking, Know what? “I am not surprised that they have decided upon this,” he says carefully, “but no, I did not have prior knowledge of it.”
I turn to glower at the Prince of Orange. “And you?”
To his credit, he meets my gaze, even though it fair scalds him. “I never assumed it would be otherwise. It is precisely the reason the French were able to have the proxy marriage to the emperor annulled. With so much at stake, I never doubted the consummation would be a public affair.”
“Then why did you not bother to warn your cousin, dear Prince? For she had no inkling this was coming. It was you who should have been there as she prepared for this public spectacle so you could find the words to ease her embarrassment and humiliation.” He looks somewhat taken aback, ashamed even, and a warm glow of satisfaction erupts in my belly.
I step away. “The saints damn you all,” I hiss at them. “If you cannot protect your own duchess from these indignities, what earthly good are any of you?” Someone reaches for my hand. There is only a split second to decide whether to punch them or pull away. I am—only just—able to restrain myself, and am glad when I see that it is Father Effram.
He grimaces apologetically. “As odious as it is, my dear, it is truly for the best, and you know I have no love of these customs. But in the end, it will protect our duchess and ensure that the pope agrees with his bishops and approves the marriage.”
The fact that he is right does not make it easier to bear. Without another word, I turn on my heel and storm away.
* * *
My steps take me out of the grand salon to the main foyer, then out the door to the courtyard. Outside, the celebration continues. Rivers of wine are poured at every corner. Flutes and trumpets, tambourines and raucous cheers echo throughout the night air. I step around a procession of merrymakers and keep walking until I reach the stables. It is quieter here. It is also where the off-duty queen’s guard can be found. I want to drink and fight and let my anger spill out into the night until I am naught but an emptied husk.
I do not look for Beast. He will only try to talk me out of it, and I am in no mood for reason. Reason is sitting patiently outside the king’s bedchamber, listening carefully for every little grunt or murmur and eagerly awaiting the sight of virgin blood. I will have none of it.
I find the lot of them lounging by the far side of the garrison, drinking wine and talking amongst themselves. When I am spotted, elbows nudge and they sit up straighter.
By the time I reach them, the jug of wine has mysteriously disappeared.
“Good evening, my lady,” Sir Roscoff says.
“Good evening, Sir Roscoff.” I turn to the others. “Where did the wine go?”
“Wine, my lady?” He turns to the others. “I saw no wine—did you?”
Ignoring him, I hold out my hand and waggle my fingers. “Hand over the jug now, or suffer the consequences. Oh, and a fresh cup.” Reluctantly—no doubt concerned about Beast’s response—they comply with my request, and the jug reappears. With a look of resignation, Roscoff pours me some wine and hands it to me with an elaborate bow. “Your refreshment, my lady.”
I toss it back in one gulp. It barely masks the taste of bitterness and futility that sits so heavy on my tongue. I hold out the cup. “Another.”
Feigning concentration to hide his raised eyebrows, Roscoff does as I order. I drink again—this time more slowly—until it is gone. “And one more.”
Roscoff cannot contain himself any longer. “My lady? Are you sure this is the best course of action? Perhaps I should find Sir Waroch.”
I study him archly. “I did not realize that Beast’s handpicked soldiers were the sort to run tattling to their mothers.”
Roscoff nearly bobbles the jug, and I hear a stifled snicker from one of the others. Sipping my newly poured wine, I study the men. “What game are we playing, gentlemen?”
One of them shrugs. “Dice, for all the good it’s done us. Fortuna is not shining on any of us tonight.”
“I believe she has taken the night off,” I mutter darkly. “Besides, dice is for green young men afraid to wager anything of importance.”
Someone with a beakish nose and a protruding Adam’s apple answers. “I have two months’ wages that beg to disagree.”
I study him. “What is your name?” I ask.
“Poulet, my lady.”
I smile in delight, for indeed, he looks much like a chicken. “Truly?”
He bows with a charming flourish.
“Well, Sir Poulet. Let us play a different game—one for higher stakes that will not suck your purse dry,” I suggest.
“By all means, my lady. That is the sort
of wagering I could warm up to.”
“Excellent. Gentlemen”—I set down my cup and retrieve my knives from their sheaths—“how good are you with your daggers?”
Chapter 41
nly Sir Gaultier, who has fought by my side in the past and knows my skill, refuses to play. But the others are eager enough. It does not take long for me to beat all but two of them at a dagger toss. “That was too easy,” I complain. “Who is up for something more challenging?”
Poulet, to his credit, is willing once I explain the new game to him, and cheerfully takes up position against the barn wall. As I raise my knife, the only sign of his nervousness is the occasional bobbing of his Adam’s apple.
“My lady,” Sir Roscoff begins, “I do not think this is wise.”
I arch one brow at him. “Do you doubt my skill?”
“No. I doubt my good health should Beast learn I have allowed you to use his men for target practice.”
“And you would be right,” a deep rumbling voice says behind me. Dammit. Usually I am well aware of Beast’s approach. Either the game or the drink has dulled my senses. I turn to face him with my cockiest grin. “You know I’ll not miss. They will survive intact.”
He takes the knife from my hand. “Their bodies, yes, but not their pride.”
“You are ruining all my fun.” I try to keep my words playful, but they have a whiff of desperation to them. There is nowhere else I can be right now. If I cannot stand here, losing myself in the taste of cheap wine and the precision of throwing sharp things, there will be nothing to do but think of the duchess, and that way lies madness. Or something truly reckless.
Much like a parent adjusting a child’s cloak, Beast gently slips my knife into its sheath. “The hour is late, and your duties call.”
“My duties?” I scoff. “Did you not hear? I have been released for the night.”
Courting Darkness Page 22
