Her brows arch faintly at this. “Yes, but who are they?”
I consider—briefly—lying, but it is too easily disproved. There is no choice but to tell her the truth. “They are my sisters.”
Her casual curiosity sharpens into keen interest. “Why are they not with their father?”
I tighten my fingers on the reins and stare at the space between my horse’s ears. “He took a mortal injury and is not able to provide for their care.” My voice is cool and distant, signaling it is not a subject I wish to discuss.
It does not work with her. “What of his sons?”
I glance at her. “My eldest brother is the king of Navarre, which keeps him quite busy.”
“But what of Sire d’Albret’s other sons? Why are they not providing for their sisters?”
It has not taken her long to piece together my family’s name. It was inevitable that she would learn at some point, but I do not like it all the same.
“They have,” I patiently explain. “By placing them in my care. Besides, what better way to provide for them than have them fostered by the queen of France? I believe you yourself have set this example, have you not? You have taken scores of girls under your tutelage and protection.”
The words are the nicest I have uttered about the regent. They feel false and unfamiliar on my tongue. Her nostrils flare with pride. “I have always believed in providing a solid foundation for girls and women to follow.” She sniffs, eloquently conveying her doubt that the queen is up to the task. “I will be sure to advise the queen in this matter. Molding young minds is not to be taken lightly.”
I do not know if it is my pounding head or her own consummate political skill, but whatever I say, whatever direction I try to steer her in, only captures her interest further. “Your generosity knows no bounds, Madame.”
When she lifts her reins and returns to the head of the column, I am left with the uneasy sensation that in revealing my sisters, I have just handed her a weapon.
Chapter 44
Genevieve
s there an upcoming tourney you are training for? Why are you pushing so hard this morning?” Maraud’s back is pressed against the wall, the tip of my baselard at his throat.
“That is twice now I have had you cornered.” I try to keep the lilt of victory from my voice, but I do not succeed.
He shoves my sword aside with his forearm. “You will not always be so fortunate as to do your fighting in a rabbit warren,” he mutters. “We have practiced all the close-quarter maneuvers scores of times. We are too limited here.”
“And what do you suggest?” I ask, knowing full well what will come next.
“I suggest we begin using one of the rooms where they first held me prisoner, rather than this hole.”
“You weren’t always down here?”
“No. I was in a cell above for the first months of my stay. Given daily food and water as well.” He smiles ruefully.
I lift my sword again, making sure he sees the point aimed at his heart. “And what did you do to earn being flung down in this pit?”
“You are as tiresome as a yapping dog with that question.”
“Answer it.”
His gaze meets mine, as open and earnest as a babe’s. “I do not know. One day they wrapped a gag around my mouth, bound my hands, and shoved me down here.”
I cannot help but think of the letter I discovered in Angoulême’s study. “You are not bound or gagged now.”
“No.” His smile is one of grim triumph and puts me in mind of a wolf.
Why would his circumstances change so? “When was this?”
“That is hard to say. Accounting for time is difficult down here, but it was before Michaelmas.”
“Not so very long, then.”
He raises a dark brow at me. “I would beg to differ.”
“Touché.”
He brings his sword up to tap my blade. “Which brings us back to the point at hand. We need a larger practice area.”
I snort. “What will we do in a larger cell?”
“You will back me into a corner even faster.”
Unable to help myself, I laugh. “It would be most convenient if I were to trust you to return to the oubliette like a dutiful sheep to its pen once we had finished our practicing, but I am not a fool, Jackanapes. Especially since your story has more holes than a beggar’s cloak.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, your concern for the duchess is most unmercenary-like. The captain of her armies knows your name. You have not been killed nor ransomed. And you are such an ardent follower of Saint Camulos that you believe he would send someone to help you. If you have such a heightened sense of your own importance, why shouldn’t I?” I do not tell him of the letter. I am not ready to reveal what I have learned.
He comes at me fast, pressing hard in a flurry of blows that take all of my concentration to block. “Mayhap the confidence you speak of comes from knowing that whatever life throws my way, I can wrest some sort of victory from it.”
He is so concentrated on pressing his attack that he creates a small opening for me to duck and spin to the side, allowing me to get out from under his guard. “That may very well be true,” I say, “but I also know that when one strikes too close to the truth, people react defensively. Your own fury gives away your secrets.”
“Your keen sense of observation only enforces my conviction that you are not who you say you are. But to answer your incessant question, I am the fourth son of an impoverished minor Breton lord who sold my services as a mercenary.”
I want to crow with satisfaction. I knew it! “Why would you fight as a mercenary and not under your family’s coat of arms?”
A sour smile twists his lips. “Clearly you have never met my family.”
For some reason my mind goes back to our conversations in the dark, conversations I have forbidden him to speak of, and think of the heart wounds he spoke so knowledgably about. “So it was not your mercenary company, but your family that refused to pay ransom?”
He shifts to his right and tries to find an opening on my left, but I block it. “If there were any ransom demands sent, that would be the most likely reason it was not paid.” He picks his words carefully.
“Why did they not simply kill you once the ransom price was refused?”
He hesitates, and in that hesitation, I can feel all the lies he is considering. “I do not know why I was chosen for such hospitality.”
That is a lie. It has the shape and feel of truth, but smells off in some way. “Why are you really here?”
“I already told you.” His eyes meet mine, challenging me to remember.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did. Before. In the dark. On your third visit here.”
“This is my third visit,” I tell him through clenched teeth.
“Ah, perhaps I am mistaken.” He smiles smugly, and I want to smack it off his face.
Instead, I begin a new attack, backing him against the wall. “Since you dreamed that you already told me, you should have no trouble repeating your answer now.”
There is a long moment of silence except for the rapid tapping of metal on wood. Finally, he speaks. “I saw something. On the battlefield. The commander overseeing the route and subsequent surrender summarily executed two nobles to whom he had given quarter. That is the only reason I can think of that I have been imprisoned. But why he did not just order me killed, I do not know.”
And there is the truth. I can feel the hum of it in his words. My mind reels. “But that goes against all I have learned about how the game of war is played among the powerful.”
“Precisely. And why not just kill me and be done with it? Furthermore, who would take a mercenary’s word against the king’s general?”
“It is a mystery within a mystery within a mystery,” I murmur.
“You are wise to be mistrustful,” he says, his voice serious. “But I would have you know this. I would never endanger the
only person who has shown me kindness and humanity in the last twelvemonth.”
His words are as surprising as they are sincere, and catch me unawares. Surely that is the only reason his wooden blade is able to slip inside my guard and rest ever so gently against my collarbone.
My heart quickens. Even though he holds a rough practice weapon, he is also a seasoned soldier and could undoubtedly use it to kill me. It would be ugly, and far more painful than a sharp metal blade, but it would do the job. As I stare into his shadowed face, I become aware of all the things in this room he could kill me with—his wooden sword, the knotted rope, even his large, powerful hands. Furthermore, he is willing me to see that he could have overtaken me at any time and has chosen not to.
Well, he thinks he can overtake me, but he does not know who or what I truly am. I whip the stiletto from its hiding place, intending to bring the point of it up to rest against his throat. But he is quick—far quicker than I guessed—and knocks the knife from my hand so that I am left defenseless with his wooden blade still pointed at my gullet.
We share a long moment of silence. “It seems we have come to an impasse.”
“No impasse, my lady.” He removes his sword and takes a step back. “Simply an understanding. Here. Let me show you how to recover from such a move.” He retrieves my knife from the floor, hands it to me, then spends the next half hour showing me how to send my knife spinning into my other hand with a mere flick of my wrist.
I am impressed, in spite of myself. “Do you have more tricks like that you can show me?”
“A dozen, at least.”
He could not have dangled sweeter bait in front of me. The allure of having an array of such tricks and skills at my disposal to demonstrate to the convent just how ready I am, or to use in the service of the new queen, is irresistible. Besides, moving to a larger room—increasing the risk he presents—will be excellent training for the road.
Chapter 45
ow that my destiny is calling me, it is nearly impossible to sit still. I am eager to be away from here—on the road to my greater purpose.
But the open road is a lawless place traveled by bandits, vandals, and roving bands of mercenaries. Even though I am skilled with weapons, my training with Maraud has reminded me that so are many men. A lone woman presents a ripe target. Indeed, all the attackers must do is shout “whore!” before their attack, and their actions are no longer breaking the law or even considered a sin by the Church. There will not necessarily be time to get to my weapon, or even trust that I can deliver a killing blow.
So tonight, I carry the two hairnets over to the small table against the wall and carefully remove the wax pearls. All told, there are nearly three dozen of them. Some are slightly shrunken and dry, but others are round and plump with poison. I slip my needle case from my pocket and study my collection of needles.
The two largest are best for picking locks, so I leave those alone. The smaller, finer ones are too light to be of any use, which leaves the four midsize needles. I remove them from the case and knot each of them with a short piece of red thread so I will know which ones I have altered.
I am so pleased with this idea of mine that, for a brief moment, I cannot wait to tell Margot of it before the memories come rushing back.
My hand holding the needle trembles slightly, so I brace the butt of my palms on the table and press hard against the wood. I will not think of her. I will not.
When my hands are steady again, I take one of the red-knotted needles and the fattest pearl, then slip the needle into it so that the point is immersed in the poison. I leave it there to soak and repeat the process for the other three needles. As they steep, I turn my mind to the matter of my own death. How best to fake that?
The part of me trained by the convent has all sorts of clever ideas. But all of those would require a body, and I will have need of mine. Because of that, I settle on drowning. The current of the Charente River, especially swollen with winter rain, would easily carry away the body of anyone who fell into its depths.
After a quarter hour I withdraw the needles from the poison and place them along the table so that their tips hang over the edge while they dry.
Now. Now I am ready to risk sparring with Maraud in a bigger room. If he is planning to overpower me, or attempt an escape of any sort, he will have a surprise waiting for him.
Chapter 46
Sybella
he great towers of Plessis-lès-Tours come into sight just as darkness begins to fall, their pointed turrets thrusting up from the surrounding forest like four raised spears. The walls are of the blackest stone, the crenellations as wide and gaping as a giant’s teeth.
The late king of France, the Spider they called him, was well known to live in fear of plots and schemes and treason that might be planned against him. That is what happens to evil spiders; they are so used to weaving webs, they believe they will be caught in one as well.
But only if they could get to him, I realize as I take in the full scale of Plessis-lès-Tours’s fortifications. We must first cross a moat, then are met by an outer wall, after which we pass through another trench that is edged with palisades of iron topped with sharp clusters of spikes. I do not know whether to thank the saints for the extra protection or curse them for commending us to a prison. Of a certainty, no one will be able to breach those defenses. Not even Pierre.
When we finally gain the innermost bailey, there is no one to greet us in the courtyard. Not so much as a steward—and certainly not the king. I glance at the queen, whose face is shuttered and pale. Once we have dismounted, we are not even taken to the grand entrance, but instead are ushered to a side door, where we follow a back passageway.
“It is faster this way,” the regent says at the queen’s questioning look.
When at last we reach the queen’s apartments, they are grand enough, but they are also as cold and uninviting as humanly possible. Where is the king’s lavish welcome now? Or was that all merely a show for the attending nobles and guests rather than the queen? That thought sends an icy finger trailing down my spine. What pressing duties could he possibly have that would prevent him welcoming the queen to her new home?
Or is this the regent’s doing? A way to intimidate the queen and imply how unwelcome she is?
The regent claps her hands and orders the fire and candles to be lit. Within minutes, hard-pressed servants swarm us, making every effort to see to our needs.
Next come a veritable army of the regent’s ladies in waiting, scuttling out of their hiding places like beetles from under a rock. They surround the queen and nudge her own ladies aside so efficiently that it must be by design.
I turn a baleful glower upon the regent, but it is too dark for her to see it.
“I am not certain the room will hold all of us.” The queen’s voice can barely be heard from behind the wall of bodies that surrounds her.
The regent motions a lingering servant out of the room. “Of course not. You will be served by my ladies now that you are part of the French court.”
The queen firmly steps around two of the regent’s attendants blocking her path. “That is most kind of you.” Her words are covered in frost. “But I am accustomed to my own attendants and intend to keep them with me.” There is a clash of silence as the two women’s wills test each other. Not looking away from the regent, the queen says calmly, “Elsibet and Heloise, you will stay with me tonight. The rest of you are no doubt exhausted from our travels, and I am certain Madame Regent’s attendants can serve me well enough for one night.”
The regent’s nostrils flare, but she says nothing. Perhaps she thinks she has won, but by the queen’s expression, the matter is far from settled.
It quickly becomes clear that it has always been the regent’s intention to separate the queen from her ladies, for there are a number of chambers set aside for our use. My assigned room is small and on the uppermost floor, far removed from the queen’s apartments—or the regent�
��s. By silent agreement, Aeva and Tola accompany Tephanie and me and the girls.
The room contains a bed large enough for four to sleep abreast, with thick brocade bed curtains to help block out the chill. There is a fireplace, a begrudging scrap of a rug, and a small chest. I immediately cross the room to examine the two narrow windows on the far wall. I do not open them, but place my nose against the thick glass and peer down. It is a long, sheer drop to the courtyard below. Only a mouse could climb that.
Assured that my sisters’ physical safety and needs are adequate, I turn to Louise, who is marching. “Is something wrong, my sweet?”
Louise scrunches up her face. “My backside is sore from all the sitting.”
I suppress a smile. “And you?” I ask Charlotte. She stands against the bed, her fingers lightly running over the coverlet as if assessing precisely how old and worn it is and how that translates into our status as guests.
“It is a small room,” she says at last. “And dark.”
“Yes, but we have it to ourselves, which is a luxury.”
Her gaze finally meets mine. “Why do you care that we have it to ourselves? You will hardly even be here. You have more important things to do than tend to us.” There is no heat in her voice, no emotion at all. Which is how I know it is bothering her. Although the reason it is bothering her is unclear, as she has shown little enough preference for my company.
I reach out and lift her fingers from their examination, then hold them firmly in mine. “I do have other duties that I must see to, but you and your sister are the most important duty I have. All other duties serve that. Never doubt it, Charlotte.”
She snorts. “You don’t protect us. Aeva and Tola do. Even Tephanie protects us more than you.”
Behind me, I hear Aeva take a step toward us, but I hold out my hand. “Safety is not only about preventing a physical attack. There are many ways I see to your protection, and some of them keep me from your side much of the time. That is why I take turns with Aeva, Tola, and Tephanie. Besides”—I reach out and tweak a strand of her hair—“surely you do not long for my company.”
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