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There. I have given the man a chance to shift the responsibility for the men to his liege’s shoulders. If he truly has no part in this, then he will be smart enough to save his own neck and grasp at the sliver of an excuse I have tossed his way. I stare at him, willing him to take it. Surely if what drove me were my d’Albret instincts, I would not do even so much as that.
“That is ridiculous! The men report to me and are mine to command.”
And so he chooses. He has erased the last doubt of his complicity. I furrow my brow as if in confusion. “You are certain, monsieur?”
“Of course,” he says, thrusting his head into the noose I have tried so hard to protect him from.
“In that case”—I allow my face to harden—“perhaps Monsieur Fremin can explain to us why he had one of his men scale the wall beneath my sisters’ chambers and attempt to get in through the window?”
Surprised silence ripples around the room.
“Your chambers?” the king asks.
The regent speaks for the first time. “That is impossible! You are on the fourth floor overlooking the rear courtyard. There is no external access to your room.”
“That is true,” I agree. “But there is a wall made of stone, and stones offer the smallest of footholds and handholds. Enough for the Mouse to climb.”
Fremin’s nostrils flare, and his head rears back slightly. I blink innocently at him. “That is his name, is it not? Or do you know him by another?”
He swallows before speaking. “It is but a nickname, Your Majesty. Something the other men call him, for he is small and quiet, not built for combat.”
“Then why bring him if the need for such a large escort was due to unsafe roads?” the king asks, and I nearly cheer at not having to draw that line for him.
A sheen of desperation appears on Fremin’s forehead. “Your Majesty, she is lying! My men would never disrespect your hospitality in such a way, nor would they even know which room she and her sisters were sleeping in.”
The king turns his head to me, as if watching a jousting tournament.
“I am not lying, Your Majesty. I have proof.” I pull the tiny scrap of the Mouse’s tunic from my pocket and hold it out for the king to see. He motions me forward, but does not take the scrap from my hand. Instead, he leans to peer closer. The small square of brown homespun sits in stark contrast to the whiteness of my palm.
Which is not nearly as white as Fremin’s face. “She lies,” he protests again. “That could be any speck of fabric!”
The Bishop of Narbonne reaches toward it. “May I?”
“But of course, Your Grace.”
He takes it from me and examines it. “It is coarse wool, not the sort anyone here at the palace would wear, not even the servants.”
“How do we know she found it where she says she did?” Fremin scoffs.
“Your Majesty, what possible reason would I have for carrying around a small square of homespun just on the off chance that I may someday present it as false proof against a future accusation I could never have foreseen?”
The Bishop of Narbonne’s mouth quirks ever so slightly as he glances up at the king and nods his agreement. The king strokes his chin, eyes lingering on the scrap. “This does seem to support your claim,” he agrees. “Monsieur Fremin, you are dismissed, for now. However, Lady Sybella, you will indulge me by remaining.”
Fremin hesitates, glancing at the regent, but she stares straight ahead, not acknowledging him. He gives a terse bow, then takes his leave.
When the lawyer has left, the king gives me his full attention. “This does not leave you fully in the clear. I have spoken at length with my advisors. Assassins are a dishonorable, barbaric tool that I believe has no place in our—or any monarch’s—court.”
My hands twitch with frustration.
The Bishop of Narbonne shoots him a look that lets me know this is news to him. “Your father used them quite frequently,” he gently points out.
The king’s hands clench into fists. “I am not my father. And even if I were inclined to assassination as a political tool, they are far too powerful a weapon to rest in the hands of my lady wife.”
“Not only that,” his confessor says, “but I believe it calls into question whether or not the queen can truly serve France if she still honors the Nine and their”—he eyes me with distaste—“ways.”
The Bishop of Albi frowns in thought. “What if she were to renounce them?”
“Indeed,” the confessor muses. “Since the king’s right to rule is derived directly from God, it is possible that belief in a saint who trains assassins for his own purposes could be considered heretical.”
A murmur of discussion buzzes through the room.
The bishop nods, warming to the subject. “It is an archaic and barbaric form of worship. It is far past time the Church take this up to examine it in light of adherence to doctrine.”
At his words, a chill takes root deep in my bones. It is not only our political usefulness that is at risk, but the convent’s—and all the Nine’s—survival as well. However, they are sorely mistaken if they think we will give up our own gods without a fight.
But your god gave you up without a fight. The realization burrows its way into my heart and will not budge.
“What say you, General Cassel?” the king asks.
The general’s gaze lands on me with all the subtlety of a boulder. “I say that any assassins who do not owe their allegiance to you—and only you—are dangerous and must be rooted out like weeds.”
“He is right, sire,” the Bishop of Albi agrees. “If they come from the convent, or the Nine, then how are we to know whom they truly serve, let alone how to control them? At the very least, those who follow the Nine should be forbidden from practicing their arts.”
I am unable to keep silent any longer. “Truly, Your Grace? And what of Saint Brigantia? Was it not her acolytes who tended King Louis in his final days, bringing him comfort and succor at the very end?”
The bishop blinks at me, no quick rejoinder at the ready.
“But the Brigantian nuns do not kill people,” the king’s confessor smugly points out.
I tilt my head. “What of Saint Maurice? Will you forbid his worship or the practice of his arts as well?”
“He is not one of the Nine!”
“No, but half the soldiers in France consider him their patron saint and learn their arts in his name, leaving offerings and sacrifices and prayers at his shrines. How is that any different?”
“They do not kill—” The confessor’s words come to an abrupt halt as he realizes my point. “It is different,” he insists tersely. “They follow the earthly orders of their liege.”
“As do we at the convent of Saint Mortain,” I murmur politely.
“The girl is correct. It is not heresy,” the Bishop of Narbonne says.
“It should be,” the confessor says darkly.
“That may well be,” Narbonne says, “but the Church must declare it so. Not us.”
“If you will excuse me, Your Majesty.” All eyes shift to the familiar voice of Father Effram. I did not see him when I came in. The king blinks. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
Father Effram steps forward, hands serenely folded in his sleeves, head bowed. “I am Father Effram, Your Majesty, and the Lady Sybella’s confessor.”
I bite the inside of my lip, lest my own surprise give his lie away.
“It seemed important I be here to give the lady the appropriate spiritual guidance.”
The other bishops are nonplussed. The Bishop of Angers actually sputters. “But you are one of them! You serve one of the Nine!”
Father Effram nods. “Yes, as I am ordained by the Church to do. You are forgetting that in Brittany, we worship Christ as well as His saints. And that the Nine are only a handful of the saints we worship. The others are the precise same ones that you yourself worship—the Magdalene, Saint Christopher, Saint Guinefort, and Saint Michael.”
/> The regent steps out of the shadows. “This is an important matter, to be discussed at length and in private. Not, I think, in front of the Lady Sybella. Nor any of those who would be affected by such a change.”
The king’s eyes are cool upon her. “Tell me, dear sister, how long have you known?”
The regent blinks. “Known what, Your Majesty?”
“Known of the convent and their purpose?”
