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“I learned of it when you brought the matter to Lady Sybella’s attention, the first day that Monsieur Fremin announced his men were missing.”
I cannot tell if she speaks the truth or if she is lying. Did none of her spies ever tell her of the convent? Either way, I have so few weapons that I must take chances. “Oh, but she did know, Your Majesty,” I protest. “As did your father. I do not know why they chose not to share it with you.”
The king sets his teeth, a faint flush of red appearing in his pale cheeks. “We will speak of this later, you and I.”
The regent whips her head toward me, her eyes full of murderous intent. Her attack, when it comes, is low and unexpected. “Your Majesty, given what we’ve learned of Lady Sybella, do you still think it appropriate for her to have custody of her sisters?”
He considers me, his gaze distant and assessing. “No. I do not.”
And there it is. My worst fears brought to life. I allow my face to fall. “Your Majesty.” My voice trembles with emotion. “I would remind you that I do not have custody of my sisters. They went missing while under the crown’s protection.”
“You are right, demoiselle. Matters of church doctrine aside, two young girls are missing. Two young girls who fall under the court’s protection, something I take most seriously. I have sent search parties out to scour the area and look for any signs of them. Hopefully we will have news soon.”
The king’s announcement of his search party sets near panic aflight in my chest. How far has Beast gotten? I wonder as I leave the audience chamber, careful to keep my steps slow and even. Between Beast’s need for secrecy and the two girls, he cannot be making good time.
And how far do the king’s men plan to search? Four men such as Fremin’s could cover a lot of ground. Much more than Beast and the girls could have.
Merde. What if he finds them? Then everything will be lost, and all that we have done will have been for nothing.
Chapter 11
Aeva
I smell them long before I can hear them, the stink of their iron weapons acrid in the cool, damp air. I crouch down lower in the bracken and crawl forward on my belly to look over the ridge into the valley below.
There are two, no three, columns of mounted soldiers wearing the king’s colors. They are heading toward the Loire River, but bearing west, toward us. The lines ride one bowshot apart, with some of the men beating at the bush with clubs, as if trying to flush pheasant out of hiding.
A prickle of anticipation runs along my scalp, for these are not mere hunters.
We have been traveling west for two days, staying well south of the river. We did not expect pursuit. Sybella had spun plans upon plans to keep them from noticing our absence. And even if they did, they would search north of the river toward Brittany, which is why we have been heading in a southerly direction, as if traveling to Poitou. But by their formation and crosshatching, it is clear that these men are not merely in pursuit, but searching.
I back away from the ridge. When I am far enough that they will not see me, I begin to run, keeping low and matching the rhythm of my movements to the sounds of the forest, taking a step in time with the cry of a kestrel, moving forward as the wind rustles the branches.
Divona’s ears prick as she hears me coming, but sensing my urgency, she does not whinny her normal greeting. I vault onto her back, then ride hard to catch up to the rest of the group.
Beast rides behind the others, waiting for me. I warble like a thrush, and he quickly falls back. “How did you hear them?” he asks. “I pride myself on my sharp hearing, and I heard nothing.”
I smile. “Nor did I. I could smell them.”
He gives me an aggrieved look. “Even so, I should have gone, not you.”
“Might as well send a boar crashing through the woods to announce our presence.”
“I can move quietly.” He sounds mildly offended. “What did you learn?”
“Three groups of men, searching in crisscross patterns between the Loire to the north and the Vienne’s southward bend.”
“Camulos’s balls,” he mutters. “How fast are they moving?”
“Faster than us, but their search pattern forces them to cover twice as much ground. They should catch up to us by nightfall.”
“Any indication how far they intend to go?”
“They did not say.”
“No, but since you can smell and hear things that the rest of us cannot, I thought perhaps you’d discerned it through the weight of the gear they carried or the pacing of their horses.”
“Well,” I concede, “they were traveling light, no pack animals. So they are likely planning to spend the night in a town or holding.” I pause. “How far are we from any town or holding?”
“Not far. I had hoped to spend the night in Chinon, but it sits near one of the king’s castles and is likely where they are headed. I do not want to put ourselves so directly in their path.” He glances ruefully at our little party. Eight men-at-arms, two Arduinnites, one lady in waiting, a gnome, and two young girls.
“We cannot outrun them, nor are we close enough to the river to cross it before nightfall.”
Beast looks wistfully at the forest around us. “A cave would be nice. But the saints only know if there is one near here or how we could find it if there was.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain of that, O Angry One.”
He swings his gaze to me. “I only got angry once,” he mutters. Or growls. I can never be certain with him.
“But it was such a deeply righteous anger. And in all fairness, Sybella deserved it for trying to slink off without telling anyone. Here.”
I slip off my horse, hand Beast my reins, and move a dozen steps away from him. I kneel, spread my palms, and slowly press them into the ground, past the rich leaf mold into the deeper soil below. I close my eyes and slow my breath, allowing my pulse to match that of the earth beneath me. The rhythm is slow and steady, so profoundly comforting that my body hums with the rightness of it. I feel the pulse bounce off the roots of the trees, feel it swerve to avoid a deep boulder thrusting up from the bowels of the earth. It moves more swiftly after that, humming along until it opens up near the surface, then echoes off a small enclosed space.
I stand up and brush off my hands. “There is a cave due west, just before the forest ends. If we hurry, we can make it before they pick up our trail. But it will be close.”
Chapter 12
Genevieve
The king stands before the east wall, studying the painting that hangs there. “Your Majesty.” I curtsy deeply. I had not expected another summons so soon. If ever.
Although it is not yet dusk, all the candles are lit and the fire built high. Without taking his eyes from the painting, he motions me to my feet, then bids me come closer. “Have I told you of this painting?”
“No, sire.” It is, I realize, what he was staring at the last time, when I glimpsed such longing and resentment on his face.
“My father had it made for me.”
It is violent and gruesome—a soldier holds a nobleman in a blue doublet decorated with gold fleurs-de-lis by the chest, his sword raised. They are surrounded by a mob of knights and men-at-arms. Blood already pours from the nobleman’s many wounds, but that does not cause the others to call off their attack, as they are poised to hack him to pieces like the two noblemen who already lie dead on the field.
“It seems a most melancholy gift.”
His mouth twists in a bitter smile. “It was not a gift but a reminder of what happens to those too weak to seize and hold pow
er. To those who lessen their stranglehold over others. It was how he ruled, how he trained my sister to rule, and how he expected me to rule.”
“Does the regent have a similar painting hanging in her chambers?”
The king barks out a surprised laugh. “She needs no reminder. Unlike me.”
So a reminder, then, of how lacking his father saw him. A way to reach beyond the grave and coerce him into being the man his father was instead of his own self.
He turns on me then, all the loathing and frustration he kept in check while staring at the painting unfurls, filling the space between us, the unexpected shock of it like a fist. “According to his rules, you have betrayed me, and to betray me is to betray France itself. You owe me much in the way of restitution.” The way his eyes rake over my body leaves no doubt as to his motives.
I want to take him by the shoulders and shake him. To shout at him that this is not who he is. But of course, I dare not. I make no move. Not of revulsion, nor of encouragement. While I have no desire to feel his anger, neither do I wish to lie with him again. Ever. It is not simply that he cannot give me what I want, but that I have seen him more clearly for who he is. There is nothing like anger to reveal a man’s true character, my aunt Fabienne always claimed. More important, the queen is not like her mother nor any of the noblewomen I have known and does not relish the idea of sharing him with a court favorite. While he is not deserving of such loyalty, the queen is, and I will honor her wish in this.
He sneers at my continued silence. “Will you not willingly give me what I want unless I shower you with fine gifts?”
“I never wished for your gifts,” I remind him softly.
My words seem to anger him further. “Gifts would have cost me less than what you asked for. What you asked for goes to the heart of what makes me king.”
Genuinely perplexed, and more than a little appalled at this change that has come over him, I ask, “What is it that I asked for, sire?”
