“Very well. I will enjoy this picnic all by myself. It is too bad, though, because if you could get food in your stomach, it would soak up the last remaining dregs of the poison and draw it from your system.”
“Did you just come down here to torture me?”
“But of course. What other fate would you deserve after betraying me?”
“I told you.” The words sound as if they are being forced out between clenched teeth. “I was not betraying you. I was going to take you with me. Rescue you, even.”
I laugh. He does not know me well enough to know it is forced laughter. “And yet here we are.”
“If you are done gloating, feel free to leave anytime.”
“Ah, but I did not come to gloat. Or not only to gloat.”
“Then why are you here?” His voice is tinged with, not anger, but something bleaker than that.
“I have come to tell you goodbye.”
The stillness that follows is so thick I could slice it with my knife. “Goodbye?”
“Yes. I am leaving.” Even though he does not deserve it, I speak the words softly to gentle the blow.
That announcement is met with another silence, this one filled less with bleakness and more with interest. There is a loud rustling as he sits up. “If you are leaving, take me with you.” The fierce longing in his voice causes it to tremble slightly.
“Unfortunately, I cannot take you with me as I can no longer trust you. But I did bring you one last meal before I leave.” Teasing him was supposed to feel more satisfying than it does.
“Food!” He spits out the word. “What do I want with food if I am to remain shut away in here?”
I take another bite of the pear, being sure to slurp the juices loudly. “You once cared very much for food.”
“That was when I had hope and a plan. Both of which you have taken from me.”
“Taken from you?” My voice grows hard. “And what of the trust and sense of safety that I have had taken from me?”
“I will swear on anything you ask.”
“There is no oath you can swear that I will believe. If I was wrong to trust you in the enclosed space of a dungeon, how much more foolish would I be to trust you on the open road?”
“If I was on the open road, there would be no need for trust. I would have what I wanted!”
“That is a good point. And if I trusted you, I would believe it. But this is not just about me. I have important things I must do. People who are counting on me and whom I will not jeopardize with misplaced trust.”
He takes a step closer to the middle of the room. I casually pull my feet up out of the hole and fold them under me.
“As do I,” he says.
“You?” I frown down into the pit. “You have languished down there for nearly a year. What important tasks could possibly await you?”
“I told you, I witnessed a crime on the battlefield. I am the only one who can see justice done for those who were wrongfully slain.”
At the urgency in his voice, I set down my pear and wipe my fingers on the sack. “I am sorry.” All the teasing is gone from my voice. “Your cause sounds noble, but my task involves saving those who are still alive. Your revenge will have to wait.”
“I could help you save them before I pursue my vengeance.”
Surely that smooth, reasonable voice is the same one the serpent in the garden used in the stories favored by the Church.
My own voice takes on a mocking tone. He will never know it is directed at myself for wanting to believe him. “That is a gracious offer, but the sort of saving I will be doing does not require strength or mercenaries.”
“I will die if you leave. No one comes down here anymore.”
I shift on the hard stone. “You can’t know that. Opportunity presented itself once. Who is to say it will not again?”
He snorts. “The gods will not roll the dice in my favor twice. Better to have been left alone than to have fed me hope, only to snatch it away.”
His words have the force of a punch, for I suspect in my heart they are true. “I did not know when I began this that I would be leaving.”
Now it is his voice that takes on a mocking tone. “How did you see this playing out? Keeping me like a child keeps a pet? Or would you eventually have become skilled enough with your sword that you no longer needed me, and we would have said goodbye then?”
“I did not think that far ahead,” I admit. “I have only been putting one foot in front of the other, praying that a steppingstone would appear in time to carry me forward. And this newest steppingstone leads me away from this place.” I rise to my feet and pick up the sack of food, knotting it before holding it out over the oubliette. “Here.” I let go. “A parting gift.”
There is a dull thud as it lands in the straw. I grasp the grate and lower it back down over the hole, but slowly, so it does not clang loudly like a funeral bell. As I slide the bolt into place, he calls out, “Wait.”
I pause.
“If you are feeling charitable, consider leaving me the rope.”
Even though I had planned on leaving him the rope, I do not answer. Instead, I turn to leave, but a thought occurs to me, causing me to stop. “Who are you really?”
“Will it matter once I am dead?”
“If you have any family, surely it will bring them some peace of mind to know what became of you.”
He considers for a long, hard moment. “My name is Anton Crunard,” he says at last.
I can scarce believe the name I am hearing. “Crunard,” I repeat.
“Yes. The fourth son of the chancellor of Brittany.”
My mind reels at all the implications crowding into my head at once. “Why has he not paid your ransom?”
“I told you, we are not close. I was the prodigal son.”
He does not know, I realize. He does not know that his father is no longer chancellor. He does not know that his father betrayed Brittany.
And that he did so in an attempt to save Anton—Maraud.
I think of him, and his honor, honor that would not allow him to overpower me, no matter how many unwitting opportunities I gave him. It is said the apple does not fall far from the tree, but in this case, I think perhaps it did.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say at last. “And I will think about the rope.”
* * *
I take my time making my way back to the main floor of the chateau. My footsteps drag as my mind races. Maraud is the son of one of Brittany’s most noble families.
Or at least, what was once Brittany’s most noble of families. War and politics have taken their toll on the Crunard name, with three of the sons—Maraud’s brothers—killed in the conflict between France and Brittany. But it is the stain his father brought on the family honor that will leave the deepest scar. The man betrayed the duchess—and all of Brittany—right into the hands of the French regent. Or tried to. His plans were discovered in time.
That is why Maraud’s ransom wasn’t met. The regent held him hostage, with treason as his ransom price. And even though the chancellor paid the required price and betrayed his country, the gambit failed. And apparently Maraud was not freed.
But why keep him hidden now, if Brittany and France are truly allies? Should he not be returned to his family? Is there some risk to having him back among the living, telling of his treatment at the hands of the French crown? The way he has been treated goes against all the rules of engagement and chivalry. For the king, chivalry and honor are everything.
I think of the letter in the study. Or . . . My steps slow even further. Is the whole affair too dishonorable for the regent to admit to?
The faint simmering in my gut tells me that this changes things. It is as if Fate herself has rolled the dice for me and landed on a new number.
I can use Maraud’s identity to my advantage.
I can take him with me.
Not because of any misplaced sense of obligation or fondness, or because I feel he h
as drawn a miserable lot, but because his identity could prove useful on many fronts.
My plan to return to the king after a long absence and collect on a promise he made over a year ago is risky. His tastes and desires may well have changed. There is no guarantee he will still want me with the same fervor he once possessed.
But arriving at court with Anton Crunard in tow is like slipping poisoned needles up my sleeve. If my first gambit fails, I have something else to bargain with.
It is clear the regent has worked hard to hide Crunard’s existence from the king. There are only a few reasons she would do that. And whatever the reason, the king will likely be angered by how Maraud has been treated and will embrace the chance to fix the wrong that has been done him. It is even possible he has been looking for him. If so, I will be doing the king a service.
I turn the puzzle over in my mind again to see it from another side. It is also possible that the queen will want revenge on the Crunard family for what the father did to her. While that is not nearly as pleasant an option for Maraud, it still puts me in a position of having done the royal couple a service. With the war between France and Brittany now over, the king could give the prisoner to the duchess as a gift—to release or punish as she saw fit. Either way, there is a good chance that someone at court will be grateful and reward my efforts.
And surely that is one more roll of the dice than Maraud has right now. It is not precisely what he wanted, but it is an opportunity. Surely that is something.
My head is still spinning by the time I reach the upper floors. Not wanting to join the others in the solar just yet, I stop to glance out the window. A flutter of movement and color catches my eye. At first, what I am seeing makes no sense. Leaning closer to the glass, I realize it is a group of mummers, heading for the castle, their long, brightly colored ranks strung out along the road like the ribbons on a maypole.
But of course. Today is winter solstice, and while not part of the Church’s Advent celebrations, it is the day the mummers—who belong to a much older tradition than the Church—begin to make their rounds. By custom, they start in Cognac, then travel to the count’s residence in Angoulême city, before looping back to arrive in Cognac by Epiphany Sunday.
There are easily thirty of them, or more. They come pushing carts, half dressed in their costumes, with their masks tucked under their arms. The castle guards pay them little mind, except to smile and wave them through.
Like a ripened apple dropping from its branch, a plan comes to me. A bright, shiny, colorful plan.
I think I have found my way out of the castle.
Chapter 52
Sybella
fter the midday meal, the women of the court gather in the solar. The queen has relegated all the regent’s attendants to the far end of the room so she can write her correspondence away from their prying eyes. Aeva and I sit to either side of her. I pretend to be embroidering, while Aeva does not pretend so much as simply stab her unthreaded needle into the fabric when it occurs to her.
I send a sidelong glance to the other end of the room. Honorée is not stitching but reading a book of hours. Another of the attendants, Katerine, seems more interested in the queen than the others. She also works hard to blend in—another sign she might be from the convent. I think I will approach her next
“I am asking Duval to look into the matter of the ambush.” The queen speaks softly, her voice barely audible over the scratching of her quill. “Perhaps he or my cousin, the Prince of Orange, will be able to gain some insights.”
“Mortain knows no one here seems to be able to,” I grouse at my embroidery.
She looks up at me, lowering her voice even further. “Has Beast learned anything?”
“Not much. He and the other queen’s guards have assimilated as best they can in the garrison, training on the field with the others, dicing and drinking and trying to earn their trust. He has put out a few inquiries regarding Crunard’s son, but to no avail. No one appears to have even heard of him, so if he was being held hostage, it was not something that was done openly.
“He asks the marshal daily if there is any word of the attackers, so much so that the marshal heads in the opposite direction when he sees Beast coming. He has toned down his questions for now, lest they draw too much attention his way.”
The queen sighs in frustration as she sprinkles sand on her letter so it will not smear. She sets it aside to dry and retrieves another piece of parchment. “I am also writing to the Princess Marguerite.” At her name, my fingers grow still. “I wish to extend a hand of friendship and attempt to repair any ill will that may exist between us.”
Studying my stiches more intently than I have all morning, I ask, “Do you know where she is currently residing?” I have not had the heart to tell the queen that she is but a league or two from our own location.
The queen’s quill pauses. “No. I had assumed Amboise, or perhaps Bourges.” She taps the quill on her chin. “I suppose I should confirm that before I send the letter.”
“And best to do it without the regent learning of it,” Aeva adds darkly.
As if the warning has called her, the regent herself steps through the solar door. She glances at her ladies, relegated to the far corner, then heads directly for the queen.
The queen pretends to be so absorbed in her correspondence that she does not see the regent. When she reaches us, Aeva and I have no choice but to stand and curtsy. That is when the queen looks up. “Oh, Madame Regent! Good morning. Is there something I may do for you?”
The regent’s lips curve up in a smile that lacks any hint of warmth. “On the contrary, Your Majesty. I had heard you were working on correspondence this morning and thought to see if there was something I could help you with.”
I glare at the knot of attendants at the opposite end of the room. That news did not take long to travel.
“That is most kind of you, Madame, but I have the matter in hand.”
“Do you not seek my counsel in these things? Surely you do not wish to risk offending or embarrassing the king in such matters after all that he has done for you?”
The queen lifts her chin and narrows her eyes. “After all that we have done for each other, Madame. Never forget that I have brought much to this marriage, land as well as peace, and I will not be set aside to embroider. I will be an involved queen and do honor to the king. Besides, I have been writing to heads of state since I was seven years old. Please be assured that I am quite capable at it.”
The regent’s face sours around the edges, but before she can speak again, the queen changes the subject. “Speaking of correspondence, has the king received any word as to who might have been behind the ambush on our traveling party?”
The regent’s smile returns now that she has something the queen wants. “I fear there has been no news on that front, Your Majesty.”
My hands itch to slap the false regret off her long face.
The queen sets her quill down with an audible click. “That is unacceptable. One of my dearest and most trusted advisors was killed in the attack.”
“We do not know that, Your Majesty. He may have simply died of apoplexy.”
“Perhaps,” the queen says, unconvinced. “Has there been any word from the pope yet on the dispensation?”
The regent’s moue of disappointment is as false as her earlier regret. “Not yet, no. But the bishops continue to assure me that all is in order and it is simply a matter of the paperwork to be completed and delivered.”
“Let us hope you are right. And speaking of Church matters, has the Princess Marguerite reached her father’s holdings yet? I wish to write to her and was not certain where to send my message.”
My stitching forgotten, I study the regent’s face closely. She does not so much as twitch an eyelash. “I do not believe she has reached him yet. But you may give your message to me, and I will see that she gets it.”
“That is a very kind offer,” the queen says, although she has no i
ntention of taking the regent up on it. With well-disguised relief, she turns her attention to a flutter of commotion at the far end of the room. The king’s chamberlain enters, bows to the attendants, then makes his way over to our end of the room, where he bows to the regent and then the queen. “Your Majesty, the king requests that you join him for a walk through the palace gardens this afternoon.”
The queen’s face brightens at the invitation. “Please tell His Majesty I would be honored to join him.”
As the chamberlain leaves to take the queen’s response to the king, the queen glances up at the regent. “If you will excuse me, Madame, I must get ready for my lord husband.”
Unable to interfere with a request from the king, the regent inclines her head in acknowledgment, but not before I see how very much she hates this intimacy between the king and queen that by its very nature excludes her.
Chapter 53
Genevieve
efore I leave the castle never to return, there is someone I must say goodbye to.
With my heart thudding in my chest, I head to the nursery. Two women sit near the fire, a small child just learning to walk toddling on the carpet between them. The child points and makes an unintelligible sound. One of the women turns her head.
Jeanne’s face softens when she sees it is me. “Genevieve.” She rises gracefully, steps around her young daughter, and comes to greet me. “I am glad you’re here,” she says simply. No questions or remonstrations for not having come sooner. She takes my hand gently in hers, and I let her. She gives it an encouraging squeeze before leading me to a spot on the other side of the room where a small wooden cradle sits, just beyond reach of the fire.
My heart beats louder, my mouth growing dry.
“Here she is,” Jeanne says softly, squeezing my hand again before withdrawing. She scoops up her daughter and shoos the nurse out of the room.
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