Igniting Darkness

by Robin LaFevers

  She opens her mouth to argue, but he puts his hand up to silence her. “You are to listen today, not speak.” Her mouth snaps shut and for all that she tries to hide it, she looks truly concerned for the first time since I have known her.

  “To ensure that such unsupported claims are not made in the future, you will be signing an agreement declaring your aid and support of our queen and swearing that you will not set your allies upon her. The agreement will also be entered into and signed by the Duke of Orléans and your husband. Nod if you understand.”

  She hesitates, drawing the moment out, longing to defy him, calculating. Concluding that she does not have any rope left, she nods once.

  “I want to be most clear on this. If you move against my queen again, it will be treason.” The king motions to his steward, who hurries forward with a small table. Next the Bishop of Narbonne steps forward and lays several sheets of parchment on the table. “If you will please read the document so you understand all that you are agreeing to, then sign it.”

  Again the regent hesitates. This time, she looks to her husband, but he merely stares back at her, appearing more than a little repulsed. With no other options before her, she turns to the document, making a show of reading it carefully. At last she signs with a flourish. “This is not necessary, you know. I have nothing but your best int—”

  “Sir Beaujeu, you may now sign the agreement.”

  The Duke of Bourbon steps forward and signs, not bothering to read it, which makes me think that he has seen it before. This is confirmed when the Duke of Orléans signs, for he does not read it either. As the men step back, the king looks once more to his sister. “I thank you for guiding the crown when I was too young to do so, but that is no longer the case. Further, it is past time for you to look to your own holding and family. You have a daughter—turn your attention to her upbringing. Are we clear?”

  The regent’s face is starkly white as she realizes she is being stripped of all power. I can see her mind churning, trying to find a way to make one last convincing argument, but the stony set of the king’s face makes it clear he will not listen. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Good. Captain Stuart will escort you and your husband from the palace and see you on the road to home. General Cassel? I will speak with you next.”

  When he does not come forward, it takes everyone a moment to realize he is no longer here.

   Chapter 105

  Sybella

  It takes me two days of restlessly walking the castle yard and two trips to the chapel, Jamette sniveling at my heels, to collect most of the information I need. I contrive a visit to the stables to check on my horse, who I told her I feared was lame after our long ride here, but as I draw near the mews to see the falcons, she balks, worried I will try to send a message. I shrug and let her steer me away.

  I am not after the hawks or messages, but wanting to understand every nook and cranny this holding possesses. I now know who comes and goes, what gate they use, how carefully those gates are watched. I know the patterns of the household, how many of them attend chapel and when, and how often they change the guard. I have learned the impassable barriers and the more vulnerable spots—the drains, the culverts, the shortest points on the wall, as well as the parts of it that cannot be seen by the posted sentries. All in all, I am pleased with what I have learned, although it is discouraging as well, for there are few options. However there is still one prize I seek, one that I cannot explore without raising her suspicions.

  That is why I have kept us out until nearly dark. She is tired and cold and cranky and half ready to shove me into the well and be done with it. “Here, let’s go look at the handsome guards. That ought to cheer you up.” Some of the ire smooths from her face as I steer her toward the garrison.

  I lean in close. “I think that tall one with the nicely shaped beard has been watching you,” I murmur in her ear, my heart twisting with guilt when I see the way her face lights up. Merde, having a conscience is tiresome. But what is her small vanity compared to Charlotte’s and Louise’s safety? While she sends flirtatious looks to the guard, I take two steps back and press myself against the wall where the shadows have lengthened. With no eyes on me, it is easy enough to cloak myself in their darkness as I hurry back across the courtyard to the artillery. That—and what it might contain—is at the heart of my plan.

  I scuttle around to the backside of the building, where no one can see. This building is newer than the keep, and the windows lower and wider. When working with cannon and gunpowder, one needs all the light one can find in order to avoid a fatal mistake.

  Using my elbow, I scrub the glass clean of dust and peer in, my heart giving a skip of joy. The light does not penetrate far into the room, and the keep has not been garrisoned for battle in at least fifty years, but through the gloom I see a number of large, lumpy shapes covered with canvas—at least three of which I recognize as cannon. A pile of squat iron pots teeters haphazardly in one corner. They are similar to the ones the charbonnerie filled with gunpowder and used to create explosions. There are a number of long iron tubes that could be culverins. Oh! And ribauldequins! I can only pray the small kegs hold the gunpowder the ancient cannon require.

  And that it has not gotten wet. Or separated. Or any number of things that would make it useless. Even so, my plan is viable.

  Heartened by this, I pull the shadows close once more, then skirt the outer wall over toward the mews, where Jamette was so determined I not visit. When I am but fifteen feet away, I let the shadows drop.

  A moment later, Jamette calls at me from across the yard. “Sybella!”

  I pause.

  “It is time to go in now.” Her voice is sharp, as if she has caught a naughty child and cannot wait to scold him. I toss my head, as if defiant, and saunter over to her. When I reach her side, she grabs my arm and gives it a painful squeeze. “Do you want me to have to report you to Pierre?”

  “Of course not,” I say sharply, because it is what she expects. But I also wonder why she would hesitate.

   Chapter 106

  Genevieve

  Once Captain Stuart has been sent off to find the general, and the regent and her husband have been escorted from the chamber, the rest of the king’s advisors begin to drift away, talking softly among themselves. I wonder how they feel about this turn of events. When the king is nearly alone, I risk coming forward, then wait for him to indicate I may approach.

  When he gives me permission to speak, I ask, “When will you release Sir Waroch and Lady Sybella, Your Majesty?”

  He does not meet my eye, but instead focuses on the group of men leaving the room. “Captain Stuart is on his way to release Captain Waroch as soon as he has found the general. As for Sybella, she has already been released.”

  “What?” I take a step forward without thinking. “Why have I not seen her?”

  He finally looks at me then. “Because she was released into Pierre d’Albret’s custody three days before you arrived.”

  His words stun me as thoroughly as any blow, and for a moment, I think I will be sick.

  If only I had never come to court.

  If only I hadn’t spoken to the king about the convent.

  If only I had returned to Nantes with Sybella and Beast instead of lingering in Brittany.

  But regrets will not help anyone now. Instead, I take those feelings and shift them into something darker and more useful. Anger. I bob an abrupt curtsy at the king, then stride from the audience chamber, racing back to my room.

  She has been in his custody for over a week. My body starts to tremble, not with fear, I tell myself, but with a need to fix this.

  If only my foolish heart had stayed in the iron box I so carefully fashioned for it. For this, I realize, is precisely the reason I have hidden it so deeply. This is why I have always preferred my dealings with others to be negotiations or trades to be worked out. One would never give a piece of one’s heart away in a mere trade. Or worse, with nothing to show
for it but pain and a nearly suffocating remorse.

  But, a small voice reminds me, you have found joy and laugher, love and grace, as well.

  And while that is true, when placed on a scale that tips so heavily toward tragedy, I fear it will break my heart beyond repair.

  When I reach my room, I cross to the cupboard against the wall, yank open the bottom drawer, and take out my pack—the very one I carried with me from Cognac. I quickly collect all my various knives and other weapons from their hiding places about the room and am just shoving the last of them into it when the king arrives.

  I barely glance up from my packing.

  He closes the door behind him. “Where are you going?” He tries to sound peremptory, but the words come out vaguely uneasy instead.

  “I must get to Sybella.”

  “I have not given you leave to go anywhere,” he replies.

  I stop long enough to give him my full attention. “Then you will have to imprison me again—or kill me—for I will not rest until I have gotten her out of there.”

  “You are so certain she is in danger?”

  I clench my fists so I will not throw my pack at him. “Yes, Your Majesty. I am completely certain of it. As are you.”

  He makes a noise of disagreement.

  It is only the brief flicker of shame that I see in his eyes that stops me from getting angrier. “Sire, ask yourself why d’Albret used so many extreme and underhanded methods to retrieve his sisters. Why not simply petition the king and be satisfied with his answer?”

  “Because under the law they are his to—”

  “They are his. That’s all he believes. He views them not just as his responsibility, as you believe, but as his possessions. He believes he owes them less consideration than he does his horse or hunting hound. That they are his to do with as he wants. To use in any way he sees fit to advance his power, form an alliance, slake his lust, or punish simply because he is angry.

  “You are governed by honor and chivalry, Your Majesty, but he is not. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

  “You have seen him this way with his sisters?”

  “No. I have seen him this way with Sir Crunard, a man who by all measures is his equal both by virtue of his sex and lineage. When Crunard would not do as he bid, he set a half dozen men with swords upon him in answer to such perceived disrespect. When Crunard survived that, d’Albret sent an entire battalion of men to kill him or bring him back. When that failed, d’Albret then seized Crunard—from your own palace in Paris!—and forced him to take part in a rebellion. He held Sir Crunard’s own father hostage to force his cooperation.”

  “You have made it clear that the man is a brute, but that is not against the law.”

  I close my eyes so I will not fly at him in a murderous rage. “Isn’t it? Is not what General Cassel did against the law? Is not what your own sister did against the law? You were willing enough to punish her. You were willing enough to punish Sir Waroch when you thought he’d simply left his post without your leave. Is a woman’s safety so much less deserving of the law’s protection?”

  “But Viscount d’Albret has done nothing to me—”

  “To you. Is that what the standard is? If so, how easily you forget what both Crunard and I have told you—that he was involved in the rebellion. That he has allied with your sister time and time again to move against you. However, that is your choice to ignore, for it only endangers your own power and authority. What you have done with Sybella endangers her very life.”

  “He would not harm her. She is his sister!”

  I do not even try to mask my scorn. “Mayhap we have a very different definition of harm, Your Majesty. Or mayhap I have been wrong about you all this time.”

  He looks so confused, so conflicted, that it touches some deep patience I did not know I possess. Or mayhap the saints themselves lend me theirs in this moment. I take a deep breath. “May we sit for a moment?” I motion to one of the low couches near the back wall.

  I can see the relief in his eyes as he gives a brief nod and follows me to the couch.

  “Thank you.” I settle into the seat. “May I tell you a story, sire?”

  “Yes, but why are you taking my arm?”

  In truth, I do not know. I am moving on pure instinct now. “I need a friend to journey with me on this particular story.” And while that is not true, I think that he will need one.

  With his hand in mine, I begin. “What if I told you the story of a girl whose father was one of the richest lords in the land. He had everything, castles, money, children. He wanted for nothing.”

  He looks at me in wonder. “Your father?”

  I squeeze his hand. “No, sire. It is only a story.” When I resume talking, I brush my thumb gently over the top of his hand. “But no matter that this man had everything. He wanted more. And what he could not have, he wanted to destroy. He cared so little for his liege, that even though he promised troops, he held them back at the last moment. Even though his children were loyal to him, he abused them terribly, with cruel blows and even crueler torments. The girls were not spared, I fear, but received the most wicked treatment.”

  His face pinches in distaste. “You cannot mean—”

  “But I do, sire. The world is a cruel place, not only for poor girls with no one to protect their interests, but noble ones as well, when those who should protect them choose not to.

  “And in this kingdom, in the house of this lord, there lived three daughters. One was nearly a woman grown, and had already suffered more than a man so nobly raised as yourself could believe. But she had two small sisters, girls who were young enough to have escaped such cruel intentions. So far.”

  Against my palm, his pulse quickens. He does not like this story. Good. “And what if that oldest sister wanted to protect them from the same abuses she had suffered? What if that was the only thing that made all her pain and agony worthwhile?”

  “I would say it was a noble aim. Did she have no brothers or other men to help her?”

  “No. She did not. The one brother who could have helped her was no better than her father.” I hear his quick intake of breath then, feel the moment he understands who and what this story is about. “So she did the one thing she could do—through dedicated and loyal service to her liege, she gained protection for her sisters.”

  He pulls his hand out of mine then and shoves to his feet, distraught. “And what has this story to do with me?”

  I do not need to answer—he already knows. “Collect what evidence you need, search for proof among people who are highly skilled at ensuring that there is none. Ignore what your own heart is telling you. But I will ride today to retrieve Sybella.”

  “My heart?”

  Unable to sit still a moment longer, I rise to collect my riding boots. “You know, deep inside, that what I say is true, but either you do not care, which I do not want to believe, or you feel you need proof, which I may never have. Or by the time we find it, it will be too late.”

  My words find their target, and he blanches. He pushes away from the mantel and runs his hands through his hair. “What would you have me do, Genevieve? Ride out with sword in hand and slay this dragon? That is the stuff of tales and legends, not something that kings do.”

  “Perhaps your father did not do it, and his father did not, but kings have done precisely that. Knights—such as Sir Crunard and Sir Waroch—do it all the time.” I take a step closer, either anger or clarity burning through my caution. “Mayhap that is precisely what you should do. Ride out with me and see for yourself what happens in your kingdom under your own nose.” My breath is heavy when I finish, my anger mixing with fear at how completely I have overstepped my bounds.

  His brow is creased in thought. “Perhaps I will speak to Sir Crunard again and hear his thoughts.”

  “Yes!” I throw up my hands. “By all means! Speak to him. But also ask yourself why you will not listen to me. Why you will not believe me.”

  He looks slight
ly perplexed. “Because you are a woman.”

  It is the very answer I expected, yet it infuriates me all the same. “And women do not understand chivalry? What, in the name of the saints, do you call leaping on a horse and riding after my sister? What do you call gathering arms and putting down a rebellion for our queen when she was not allowed to do so herself? What do you call moving heaven and earth to try to protect innocent children? Men who have done those things have had tales told about them for hundreds of years, but when I do it, you must consult with someone over the proper chivalrous response?”

  “That is not what I meant.” He looks extremely uncomfortable.

  “It may not be what you meant, but it is true nonetheless.”

  He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “I . . . You make a good point. But what I mean by you being a woman is that you have a staked interest in whether or not I believe you. You are not impartial. It is like asking a thief whether or not he stole. I feel others will be able to discuss this issue without the prejudice of your sex.”

  I turn from him, biting my own tongue for fear what anger will cause me to say. I begin shoving my plainest gowns into my pack. When I am finally able to speak, my voice has lost its sharpness. “You asked earlier if I was suggesting that you ride out with me. The answer to that is yes. I am suggesting precisely that. You were unfairly sheltered as a boy and young man, given no chance to see the world, with all its warts and muck, as others were. You have not experienced firsthand the injustices that exist beyond the palace walls. Perhaps it is time to fix that.”

  “You wish me to accompany you on this rescue you are planning?”

  “Yes. But only if you hurry. I am leaving within the hour.”