“We can do without that sort of help,” she snaps.
“I agree. But there is some other plotting afoot here. She was shown a letter supposedly written by the abbess, and examined it carefully for signs of forgery. It appeared genuine. Someone wanted her to believe that it was.”
“But who?”
“My assumption is Count Angoulême, the man acting as her liaison with the convent. But why he would risk making an enemy of the convent when he has long been our ally, I don’t know. I intend to speak with Genevieve more about it when I can.”
There is a rumble of commotion just outside her chamber and a sense of many heartbeats approaching. My eyes widen in alarm as I recognize one of them. “The king is here!”
“Fetch my chamber robe!” She throws off the covers and swings her legs out of bed.
As I help her into the robe, I talk quickly. “He will no doubt want to know if you were aware of the convent and my association with them. He has called in two of the bishops from Langeais. I tried to make the convent sound as inconspicuous as possible, but there is only so much innocence to be protested when serving death.”
She nods, eyes firmly fixed on the door.
“I think . . . I think finding me here will not soothe matters. It will be best if I remain out of sight.”
“I agree.” She waves her hand toward the garderobe. I have only a moment to secure my hiding place—then the deep voices are inside the room.
“Your Majesty.” The queen’s voice drifts up from the floor where she has sunk into a deep curtsy.
“My lady wife.” The king’s voice is cold and polite. “I tried to visit yesterday, but you had retired early. Are you unwell?”
From the tone of his voice, it is clear that he suspects it was an excuse to avoid him.
“It is just a passing malady. Please do not trouble yourself over it.”
“What if it is not some passing thing, my lady? What if it is something more diabolical than that?” This voice is deeper than the king’s.
“Bishop Albi. It is good to see you again, although pray forgive my state of dishabille. If I had known you were coming, I would have dressed myself with all the honor you deserve.”
“And yet you ignore his questions.” It takes me a moment to recognize the voice of the Bishop of Angers, the king’s confessor. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“I was not ignoring anything the good bishop said, but merely granting him full courtesy.”
“Why do you not share his concern that there is something more nefarious behind your illness?” the king demands imperiously. “Could it be that you truly do not know that one of your attendants is an assassin?”
After a thick moment of silence, the queen says, “My lord husband, I assure you—”
He speaks over her. “Did you know that Lady Sybella is an assassin from the convent of Saint Mortain?”
“I know that she serves the convent of Saint Mortain, yes. But as for her being an assassin—”
“Does she serve the patron saint of death or not?” The king’s voice rises.
“I just told you she did. But that is far different from being an assassin.”
“So you did know!” A brief, charged silence hangs in the air.
“Of course I knew.” When the queen answers, her voice is as close to deriding as I have ever heard it. “What sort of ruler would I be if I did not know all of my country’s customs and religious orders?”
“But she is an assassin!” The king nearly sputters his outrage.
“She serves the patron saint of death, just as our knights serve Saint Camulos and our scholars and healers serve Saint Brigantia.”
“No matter how you try to paint it with pretty words, she is an assassin, and you have brought her into your lord husband’s court,” General Cassel says.
“The Nine are fully sanctioned by the Church, and have been for hundreds of years.” The queen’s voice rings out firmly. “That they have fallen out of fashion in France does not change that.”
“Maybe it should,” the Bishop of Albi mutters.
“That you would think so speaks to your lack of piety, not ours,” the queen says coolly.
The king interrupts their exchange. “You used these worshipers of death?”
“It was war.” The queen’s exasperation hardens her words to steel. “We both used what tools we had available to us. Every noble house in Europe has some kind of poisoner or assassin to serve them. The Breton court is not alone in this. Besides, none of your people were assassinated, so the point is moot.”
“I have never used assassins.” The king’s voice is both boastful and petulant.
“That may well be true, but you had other tools in your arsenal that were no less deadly.” The queen’s voice shifts, as if she is in a council meeting discussing some point of philosophy. “Tell me, my lord, do you truly think it more noble to bribe my closest advisors into betraying me than to hire an assassin? How noble and fair-minded was it to capture Chancellor Crunard’s last living son on the battlefield and ransom him, not for gold, but for treason and his father’s honor?”
“Your Majesty,” General Cassel’s voice interrupts. “We are not here to recount every action taken in the long war between France and Brittany.”
“Hold!” The king’s voice sounds pained. “Tell me more about Chancellor Crunard, Madame.”
“You didn’t know.” The queen’s words are filled with amazement. “You didn’t know Chancellor Crunard’s son was held to ensure the chancellor would deliver me into the hands of France? But surely you were aware that Marshal Rieux, Madame Dinan, and Madame Hivern were all paid handsome sums of gold to betray me. My entire council was in your pocket.”
“Can you prove these accusations?” The king’s voice is strained.
“I do not need to prove them. They all confessed. And since it was those who served the patron saint of death who discovered their betrayal, I can see why you would resent such efficient weapons in my arsenal. But we are on the same side now.” Her voice softens a bit, as if to remind him of this most relevant fact. “Furthermore,” she continues, “not one of those traitors is dead, so your fears of assassination are misplaced.”
The silence that follows is so deep and wide, it feels as if a chasm has opened up in the room.
“You really didn’t know?” the queen asks at last, her voice sounding younger than it has all morning. Hope, I realize. That he did not know fills her with hope.
“No.” The word cracks through the silence like a stone through a window. “I did not know any of this.” There are no further words, and only the clip of the king’s boot heel as he leaves the room. It is followed by a rustle of fabric and a shuffling of feet as his advisors hurry to catch up to him.
The queen waits for a quarter of an hour before calling softly, “You can come out now.”
I emerge from my hiding place. “I am impressed, Your Majesty. You not only neutralized his main offense, but managed to point out his own egregious tools of war.”
“Tools he had no idea were even being used.” Her voice is bemused. “It is hard to believe they would keep something like that from him. There is only one person who would have dared to send such orders in his name.”
It is becoming clear where the seeds of his lack of trust and confidence have sprung from. “We do not know how long his displeasure with his sister will distract him from his displeasure with us, but it is a reprieve, and I will gladly take it.”
The queen’s face hardens. “When you can do so without rousing suspicion, bring this Genevieve to me.”
Chapter 7
Genevieve
When I arrive in the king’s apartments, I find him with his royal perfumer, bent over a tray filled with glass vials. The room is thick with the cloying scent of civet and orange blossoms. Unbidden, a memory of Maraud’s face when he learned the poison I had given him was simply a ruse to force his cooperation comes to me so vividly that it takes my breath away. How wi
ll he feel after our last parting, when I had to truly poison him? I quickly hide my face with a deep curtsy. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”
Dismissing the perfumer, he waves me forward. “So tell me, as an assassin, you stay informed of your queen’s politics, do you not?”
“As much as I can, although the distance and the need for secrecy has made it difficult.”
He lifts one of the small bottles to his nose and sniffs. “What do you know of her Privy Council? They were fiercely loyal to her, were they not?”
Unable to stop myself, I snort, but manage to cover it with a cough. The king’s hand tightens on the thick-cut glass he is holding. “Why do you laugh?”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I wasn’t laughing, there was something stuck in my throat. But, sire, surely you know that the majority of them were loyal to you? Do you now doubt their loyalty—loyalty you paid handsomely for?”
His face is unreadable. “And the former chancellor, Crunard? What do you know of him?”
“That he, too, betrayed the queen and pledged his loyalty to you. Although,” I add, “the cost was far greater than gold.”
“What do you mean?”
“Surely any man’s sole surviving son is more precious than coin?” Again my mind goes to Maraud and how his father’s betrayal consumed him. It is on the tip of my tongue to ask why the king is questioning me, but my own situation is too precarious.
He places the vial of scent back on the tray with such force that I fear it has shattered. He looks at the wall behind me with such thinly disguised longing and revulsion that it is all I can do not to glance over my shoulder.
“You did not know?” I am so surprised by my realization that it comes out as a whisper.
“It is my kingdom! Are you suggesting I do not know what transpires in it?”
“Of course not, Your Majesty, but the regent has been known to—”
“I am the one asking the questions. You speak at my sufferance.”
The words are so out of character for him, so completely outside any way he has ever acted before, that my mouth snaps shut. I lower my eyes. “But of course. I am here to serve you.”
He casts a sullen glance my way. “But are you?” His voice is low and still thrums with anger.
“Yes,” I say simply. “It has always been my intent. The convent’s as well.”
“They sent you to my bed?”
“No, they sent me to serve you. That was my only instruction.”
He takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he pinches the bridge of his nose. When he looks up again, there are so many emotions and conflicts seething in his gaze that I cannot identify any of them. “What am I to do with you?”
“What do you mean, Your Majesty?” I keep my voice light and innocent, as if I am not fearing punishment with every breath I take.
“I mean, I have longed for you for years, finally have you, and now I find it has been like wanting a piece of rotten fruit.”
I want to bristle at the comparison, but his mood leaves no room for such indulgences. “Rotten, my lord?” I give thanks that I have had years of experience practicing my sheep’s face.
“Yes.” He steps closer and places a finger in the hollow of my throat, one of the most vulnerable of spots on the human body. The touch is in such contrast to his mood that it is hard not to flinch. “Since you seem to know so very much, tell me.” His fingers drift upward. “What moves has your convent made against France?”
When his fingers tighten around my chin, it is all I can do not to grab him, throw him to the ground, and leave him gasping for breath. But it would not do anything to help me fix what I have broken. And while I am perfectly happy to leave him on the floor, it is not fair for others to have to clean up my mess. I will wear this mask a little longer. “None that I know of, Your Majesty.”
“Then why were you sent here?”
Small truths, I remind myself. “I have asked myself that question for many years now, sire. At first, I thought we were to collect information—”
“A spy.” His fingers tighten, not in threat, but in anger.
I shrug. “All kingdoms spy. However, we were also given instructions to not risk exposing ourselves by reaching out to the convent, so any information we gathered was essentially useless. It was more to educate ourselves on the leanings of the French court.”
“What information did you learn here at court, Genevieve?”
What to tell him? The truth of the last three days or the lie I believed until then?
I remember the look on his face a moment ago—the gaping hole he himself cannot see. Mayhap that is a path out of this mess. The one crack in his defenses that I can slip through. “I learned that Your Majesty is honorable and chivalrous. More so than your advisors—especially your sister—would have you be. I learned that you have a formidable will and a mind of your own. You do what you think is right, no matter others’ opinions.”
His grip on my chin loosens to the point of a caress. “Flattery,” he scoffs, but that does not hide the hunger I see there. The need he has for someone to recognize his independence and good intentions.
“Far more than flattery, Your Majesty. Did you not free the Duke of Orléans from his cruel captivity and restore his lands to him? Did you not choose peace through marriage rather than raining war down on innocent people?” His hand drops to his side, and he straightens. “Did you not rule in favor of your queen, allowing her to keep her vow to her lady and thus her honor?”
His mouth twists with bitterness. “Do not speak of the Lady Sybella to me.”
“I believe it was one of your finest moments, sire.” Indeed, from my new vantage point, it may be his only one.
He looks out the window. “Dammit, Genevieve, I trusted you!”
“And I you, Your Majesty. I still do.”
He rounds on me. “How long have you known the Lady Sybella?”
“I have never seen her until yesterday morning when she appeared at my door and introduced herself. I left the convent long before she arrived. In truth, I have spent as much time here at court as I did at the convent. I arrived when I was seven and left when I was twelve. I’ve been at court for five years now. The convent is no more than a distant memory, like family one has not seen in years. And as for having taken any moves against the crown?” I laugh. “I have done nothing but serve you and Madame with every breath I have taken. Indeed, that was my order from the convent—to do precisely that. That was the only order, my lord. And I have carried it out faithfully.”
“Are there more like you?”
I hesitate. But Margot has chosen her own fate and is long gone from this earth. Telling the truth will cost her nothing and could help the others. “There was one other. The Lady Margot.”
He tilts his head at the name. “Have I met her?”
“Yes, my lord, when she served the regent here at court. She was sent with Louise and me to Angoulême. But it is of no matter any longer. She is dead now.”
His lip curls in disgust but also, I think, to hide his fear. “Did you kill her?”
“Saints, no!” The accusation stings all the more for being the second time it has been made. “She did not die by anyone’s hand, but in the most ordinary of ways. While giving birth to a man’s bastard.”
He looks doubtful. “What man?”
“Count Angoulême.”
He draws a sharp intake of breath. “So you deceived him, too.” The words are spoken softly, almost as if to comfort himself rather than extract information from me, so I remain silent. “What other actions have you taken against the crown since you’ve been here?”
“I have not taken any actions.”
“Other than deceiving me.”
“None, sire.”
“You were never ordered to raise your hand against me or anyone here at court?”
“No, Your Majesty. I will swear it on the Holy Bible, on any of the Church fathers’ relics, before the cross that hangs in the church.
Take your pick. But I have never acted against you or Madame or anyone here in France.” I do not think relieving a courtier or two of an occasional stiletto or bauble can truly be counted as acting against France.
He grows still. “Does my sister know of your involvement with the convent?”
He has not told her. Even so, the ice beneath my feet is so thin I can hear it begin to crack. “No, Your Majesty. I . . . do not know if she even knows that it exists.”
He studies me a long moment, as if trying to pull the truth from my soul. “Good. Do not speak to anyone of this, not of Sybella, nor your involvement in the convent. You do not fully comprehend all that has been set in motion. If they were to learn of your involvement, I’m not sure even I could protect you.”
Does he mean to protect me from whatever political repercussions the convent’s presence creates? Yes. But not Sybella. He intends to use her as the whipping boy for my sins.
“For now,” he continues, “you may return to your quarters.”
Outrage and frustration at the sheer wrongness of what he is doing keep me rooted to the spot. He looks up. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. And thank you for showing me such mercy.”
He says nothing, but jerks his head toward the door.
* * *
When I am halfway back to my chamber, the regent swoops down on me like a vulture on a carcass. “You were supposed to keep the king happy,” she hurls at me. “Instead, he is in a foul, melancholic humor. What transpired between you?”
The sheer boldness of the question nearly causes me to blush. I look down and begin fiddling with the trimming on my skirt. “I’m not sure what you mean, Madame. The king seemed most pleased—”
“Do not play games with me,” she says impatiently. “What did you discuss? Did he share any of his current thoughts or troubles? Whom has he been speaking with of late?”
“Our conversation was of a much more intimate nature.”
“When did you leave? Was there time for anyone else to come to his chambers after you left?”
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