Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  The queen’s eyes widen with pleasure. “Oh, that is the best news, Lady Sybella!”

  “I think so, too, Your Majesty.” Sybella’s smile holds far more than simply being the bearer of good news.

  Understanding dawns. “You and the Beast of Waroch?”

  “You have heard of him?”

  “Everyone has heard of him. Even here in France. If I had a coin for every time some young boastful knight at court bragged that he could take down the Beast of Waroch, well, I would be very rich indeed.”

  A small flame of pride flares briefly in Sybella’s eyes, then is hurriedly dampened. She is in love with him, I realize.

  “He brings news from Brittany, as well. Viscount Rohan is up to something. He is amassing troops, but Beast could not find out why. He was too busy trying to escape detection.”

  The queen purses her lips in thought. “We must hear this news.”

  “I agree. But once Beast reappears, people will ask where he has been. And there is no doubt that his resemblance to Cassel will be noted and commented upon.”

  Her embroidery forgotten, the queen drums her fingers on the edge of her chair. “We will wait a day or two. Look for an opportunity to present itself. Besides, we do not want to do anything to detract from the king’s anger at the regent before it comes to full flower.”

  There is a knock on the door just then. Elsibet rises to answer it. When she returns, her cheeks are faintly pink, and she does not meet my eye. “The king’s chamberlain is at the door, Your Majesty. He is requesting the Lady Genevieve attend upon him at once.”

  Mortification curdles around me like souring milk, but I keep my head high. “I am more than prepared to refuse.”

  The queen waves away the suggestion. “Don’t be ridiculous. Now more than ever we need to know what he is thinking. Go. And with my blessing.”

  I blink in surprise. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  She turns to Sybella. “You will no doubt want to be dismissed as well, as I imagine you have others you would like to discuss this morning’s events with.” Her eyes sparkle a bit, then grow serious. “I do not want you to be alone any more than you have to, Lady Sybella. Not with Pierre here in the castle. Look to your own safety as dearly as if it were my own. If you don’t, I will have to tell Beast, and you would not like that.”

   Chapter 51

  The king is dressed more casually than I have ever seen him, in a shirt, breeches, and a leather vest. He wears deerskin gloves—the kind more suited for riding a horse than something one might do inside. The room we stand in is large and vaulted, its ceiling towering two floors above. Some of the walls are stone, and others are lined with small boxes—viewing boxes, I realize. It is only when he begins tossing the small ball in his hand up into the air and catching it that I realize where we are.

  He throws the ball against the wall, then catches it when it bounces back. “What were you doing in the queen’s chamber?” His brown eyes study me intently.

  “Answering her summons, Your Majesty.”

  He advances down the court toward me—for that is where we are, a jeu de paume court. “Why did she summon you? Have you been reporting our conversations to her?”

  “Saints, no!” The true shock in my voice seems to convince him somewhat.

  “Then why?”

  My fingers drift up to play with the silver necklace around my throat. “She wished to become better acquainted.”

  His brows rise in surprise at this. “Does she know you’re from the convent?”

  “She does now.”

  He says nothing, but pivots to the wall and throws the ball against it once more. It rebounds quickly, but he is quick as well and slaps at it with his palm. Keeping his full attention on the ball, he asks, “Why would you tell her such a thing?”

  “Because she asked. Because I have served her since I was twelve years old. Because she is my liege, just as you are. Because I did not see that I had any choice.”

  He seems appeased by this, and his palm makes contact with the ball so that it ricochets off the wall toward him. He is damp with sweat, and there is an intensity I have not seen in him before.

  Perhaps it is because his attention is so focused elsewhere, but I find myself saying, “They say it was a love match, you and the queen.” I do not pose it as a question, but it is one, nonetheless.

  “Do they?” His palm makes contact with the ball with a loud thwap.

  “Wasn’t it?” I no longer watch him, but the ball’s hypnotic trajectory between the wall and the king.

  “What sort of man would allow himself to fall in love with one lady when he had pledged betrothal vows to another?” Thwap.

  “Our hearts are not always ours to command,” I say softly. He does care for her, I realize, my heart softening in relief. As long as he cares, whatever is between them can be mended.

  The thudding stops, and he holds the ball trapped in his hand as he looks at me. “I am king. Everything is mine to command.”

  I bow my head. “As you say, sire.”

  He bounces the ball off the floor twice, then on the third bounce, reaches out and slams it against the wall, concentrating on nothing but that small hard object, hitting at it until more beads of sweat form at his temple. “My sister,” he finally says, although it is more of a sneer. “My sister has summoned your sister’s brother to court.” Thwap. “My sister has agreed to pay him a ludicrous amount of money.” Thwap. “My sister has gone too far.” Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

  I want to reach out and grab the ball from him so we may have an actual conversation, but I dare not. He is too angry, and it is far better the ball be the recipient of that anger than I. Even so, it makes talking difficult.

  “The regent is working with Pierre d’Albret?” I ask.

  “Yes.” Thwap. “He and the regent stand on one side of the argument. Your sister, the Lady Sybella, on the other.” This time when the ball returns to him, he catches it and faces me. “I do not trust or believe Sybella’s account. She has too many reasons to lie to me.”

  “And you believe Pierre d’Albret does not?” I allow a touch of disbelief into my voice.

  “What reason would he have?”

  “What reason does your sister have? Power, of course.” With the ball momentarily stilled, I risk taking a step closer. “My lord, what do you know of the house d’Albret?”

  “They have extensive lands in both France and Brittany. The eldest son is the king of Navarre. Count d’Albret is—was—a powerful baron until he fell ill. And they threw their luck in with the late duke of Brittany when he rose up against me, and the count likes to claim he was betrothed to the duchess.”

  “All of that is true enough, but what do you know of them? Their honor, their character, how others see them?”

  He frowns. “I do not engage in gossip. But I will admit that having met Pierre, I do not much care for him.”

  “What if it is not gossip?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I stare at the wall for a minute, collecting my thoughts. “At the convent, we study all the noble houses of Europe, although we focus most on those of France and Brittany, for obvious reasons.” I shift my regard back to the king. “You know that he had thrown his support behind the late duke and promised him troops to guard his flank in battle. But did you know that when he saw how the battle was going, instead of providing those troops that could have shifted the tide, he let his sworn allies be slaughtered?”

  The king’s face grows pale. “If so, that would mean . . .”

  “That the family has no honor? Yes, that is precisely what it means. The same way that handing Nantes over to the duchess’s enemies, when he was her sworn ally—shows a striking lack of honor. Count Angoulême thought the entire family cruel and cunning and not to be trusted.” The king now holds the little ball tightly in his hand, his game forgotten. I take another step toward him. “I, myself, saw with my own eyes as he nearly rode over a group of children who could not g
et off the road fast enough. I saw him order six of his men to attack a single knight—from behind—with no warning or challenge. The man is completely without honor and possesses a cruel streak that is truly frightening. Your instincts are correct,” I add softly. “He is not to be trusted. And maybe now you might understand why Sybella has fought so hard to keep her sisters from having to return to his custody.”

  I have his full attention now.

  “When you look at her behavior from that angle, it all makes sense, does it not? Would you want someone you cared for, the Princess Marguerite, for example, to be in the custody of someone like that?”

  I can see from his eyes that it does make sense, although he does not go so far as to say so. Not wishing to push the point, I change the subject. “As for the regent, she has consistently—and in large ways—gone against your express wishes. She has undermined you, made alliances without your permission, and emptied the coffers, bribing otherwise honest men. Why would you trust her?”

  He stares at me, his breath coming hard, then slams the ball into the wall. “Why indeed.”

   Chapter 52

  Guilt chases at my heels all the way to the smithy. I long to glance over my shoulder to see that I am not being followed, but that would only call attention to myself. I consider not going—if I am caught, the repercussions will be huge. It is a foolish chance to take—especially with the king’s most current demonstration of trust. But I told Maraud I would, and I will not abandon him again. Besides, he must know that General Cassel has the regent’s full support before he attempts to bring his cause before the king.

  When I slip into the smithy, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the room, the banked furnace giving off a faint red glow as well as heat. Maraud steps away from the wall. “I wasn’t certain you would come.”

  “I should not have. There are palace intrigues everywhere I turn, but since some of them may affect you, I decided to risk it.” That and my silly heart defies all reason where he is concerned.

  “Come.” He takes my hand and pulls me nearer the furnace. “Sit and tell me of these palace intrigues.” He does not look perturbed at all, as if he doesn’t believe such machinations can touch him. Irritation flares—irritation that he would hold his own safety so lightly.

  “Count Angoulême is here in Paris.”

  His hand around mine tightens briefly. “Does he know you’re here?”

  Remembering the knife, I smile. “Oh, yes. We’ve spoken. One of the things we spoke about was you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. He holds no ill will against you for your escape.”

  “Well, that’s noble of him. Too bad I hold great ill will against him for imprisoning me.”

  I watch him closely as I say the next words. “It turns out, he wanted me to free you.”

  He lets go of my hand. “What?”

  “It made no sense to me either.” I have spent hours running Angoulême’s revelations through my mind, feeling the heft and weight and fullness of them. I would never have expected him to play such a deep game. I have been studied, analyzed, and prodded along a path I thought was of my own choosing and feel like a game piece on a board. “But more important than whether or not you two decide to kiss and reconcile, he divulged that the regent ordered you imprisoned—”

  “We knew that.”

  I shoot him an annoyed look. “In order to hide General Cassel’s actions and protect him from the king’s wrath. She is as fiercely loyal to the general as he was to her father.” Maraud’s mouth flattens into a hard line. “So you will have twice the battle to make your case, with the regent fighting tooth and claw to shield not only her involvement, but Cassel’s as well.”

  Maraud swears. “Does the man have no weak spots?”

  “He has a son.”

  Maraud’s eyes narrow. “Then mayhap I will begin by aiming my revenge at him.”

  I watch him closely. “Do you know the Beast of Waroch?”

  Maraud’s entire face breaks into a wide grin. “Yes. I count him among my closest—” He scowls. “You don’t mean . . .”

  “He is Cassel’s son.”

  He looks as if he has taken a club to the head. “Beast always claimed he did not know who his fath—”

  “He doesn’t know. Not yet. He has been on business in Brittany for the queen and left before Cassel arrived at court.”

  Maraud grows quiet, looking into the red glow of the embers. Finally he says, “If there is one man who is owed vengeance upon Cassel even more than I, it is Beast.”

  “I thought you could work together. He could be an ally in this. As could Angoulême. He can explain who gave him the order and why. And speak on your behalf. He is a Prince of the Blood. Furthermore, I believe the tide is turning against the regent.”

  “Why?”

  “Pierre d’Albret is here in Paris.”

  His entire body stiffens. “Has he seen you? Recognized you?”

  “No. But I wanted to warn you, all the same.”

  He reaches out and takes both my hands in his, gripping them firmly. “You need to be careful. He saw through my disguise, he could easily see through yours.”

  I purse my lips, weighing the risk. “Our paths have not crossed. I only learned it when someone else informed the queen. I will be cautious. But the more dire news is that Pierre and the regent are working together.”

  “To what end?”

  “We don’t know yet, but they have conspired in many ways against the queen, as far back as when she was duchess, and have not abandoned their alliance. However, it has begun to come to light, and the king is now mistrustful of them both.”

  Maraud grins. “Then now would be a good time to add to the regent’s sins by revealing her role in my imprisonment.”

  “And would remove one of Cassel’s most loyal supporters. And with Angoulême to speak on your behalf, you may well have a solid enough case to lay before the king.”

  Maraud strokes his chin, thinking. “But would the count speak on my behalf?”

  “Yes,” I say grimly. “He owes me that much at least.”

  “Won’t that expose him to the regent’s ire?”

  “Not if she is out of favor.”

  To my surprise, he leans forward and plants a quick kiss upon my mouth. “Such a brilliant girl you are.” Something inside my chest feels light and frothy, like the foam on the ocean’s waves. After all that I have endured these last weeks, his words are a much welcome balm to my ragged soul.

  Then his face creases in thought as he studies me so intently that I nearly blush. “What is your role in all this?” His gaze flickers briefly to the necklace before returning to my face.

  “I wish to help you.”

  At my words, his hands come up to cup my face, his thumb rubbing gently against my chin. “Why?” he whispers. “What has changed?”

  “Everything.”

  His gaze moves down to my lips. “Good,” he murmurs, pulling my head closer. He sets his mouth against mine, savoring the feel of my lips, brushing his against them once, twice, before he slants his mouth over mine, giving rein to the urgency that fills both of us.

  I allow my own hands to touch his shoulders, savoring the sleekly muscled shape of him. For a brief moment, a memory of the king on the tennis courts barges into my thoughts. Guilt, quick and hot, causes me to pull away, and then Maraud steps closer, wrapping his arms around my waist, drawing the entire length of our bodies together, and all thoughts of the king scatter.

  “Genevieve,” he murmurs, then moves his mouth to the line of my jaw, kissing along it until he reaches the sensitive place where it meets my neck.

  I raise my head to give him better access and let my fingers play with the edges of his hair. My entire body aches for his touch, and I want him both to linger where he is and to hurry on to other places.

  As if hearing my thoughts, one hand strokes its way up the curve of my waist, brushing teasingly against the underside of my breast. Of its own a
ccord, my body arches into him. He groans and runs his hands up along my back, his fingers pausing at the feel of the silver chain along my spine.

  I grow still, letting his fingers explore the silver links through the thick fabric of my gown as I curse the way my body responds to him, curse that such feelings can drive all caution from my mind.

  He pulls just far enough away that he can look into my face. “What is that?”

  I reach around and remove his hand from it. “ ’Tis a necklace, that is all.”

  “That runs down your back?” While he does not raise his voice, neither does he try to hide his disbelief. “That feels far more like a chain to me, and I would know.”

  I think of all the jests he could make, all the ways he could crow about who is wearing a chain now. But he says none of those things. He simply pulls me closer to the light of the furnace so he can examine the links.

  “It is not a chain, but fancy court jewelry in the style that Germans or the English favor.” My heart beating too fast, I pull out of his reach.

  He lifts an unwavering gaze to my face. “What is going on, Genevieve?”

  “Nothing is going on. And I have stayed overlong already. I must go.”

  He reaches out and grabs my wrist, but gently. “You’re talking fast, and your voice is high. You’re lying. Why are you wearing a necklace with a chain?”

  I force myself to meet his eyes. “It is part of my work for the convent,” I tell him. “Truly. I can take it off and walk away any time I choose.”

  “I would hear of this assignment, then.” Slowly, his movements achingly tender, he pulls the chain from beneath my gown and lays it across his palm. The orange light from the fire sparkles off the silver surface. Even though the late-night air is warmed by the furnace, I shiver. “Tell me, Gen.”

  How do I tell him of the magnitude of the mistake I’ve made? The narrowest of paths I must tread to make things right?

  “You said you trusted me.” His words do not feel as if they are meant to shame, but to remind me in case I had forgotten.