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He bows at her politely, but does not answer the question. I carefully set the mortar and pestle down. “Heloise? Would you mind finishing this? It is almost ready to steep.” Then I step out from behind the table. “By all means, please take me to the king.”
To my surprise, we do not head for the king’s audience chamber but back toward the kitchen and a small room that stands off to the side. The first thing I notice is the mud-splattered soldiers standing at attention. The second thing I notice is the stink of death that permeates everything, explaining why the king and his advisors have not entered, but stand cramped in the hallway.
Upon my arrival, the king turns to me. “My search party has found something, Lady Sybella. Or has found someone, I should say.”
Every fiber of my being grows as taut as a bowstring. I arrange my face in what I hope is mild confusion. “I am glad of it, Your Majesty.”
The king gestures to the mud-splattered captain, giving me a moment to compose myself. Do not let it be Beast. Do not let it be Beast. “Report, Sir Reynaud.”
“We found a man’s body southeast of here, washed up on the banks of the river.”
I am so relieved it is not Beast that I hardly hear the rest of his report.
“Is it one of my men?” Monsieur Fremin has arrived, only he is not under armed guard.
“I don’t know, sir. He had nothing to identify him.”
General Cassel steps out from behind the king, his eyes boring into mine. “We have reason to believe it was you who killed him.”
The hallway grows as silent as a crypt. “And what reason would that be?” I ask.
The Bishop of Albi answers. “What more reason do we need than the fact that he is dead and you are a known assassin?”
“Even an assassin needs a motive,” I point out.
“Do they?” The king’s confessor’s eyes are alight with something both gleeful and terrifying. “When they serve the god of death, do they truly need a motive?”
“Yes. For political expediency, to protect others under their charge, in self-protection. The list is long. But those of us at the convent not only need a motive, but Mortain’s blessing, and I have neither.”
“That is not proof that you didn’t kill him,” the Bishop of Albi says.
Are they truly this stupid? This blinded by their own prejudgment?
“Does your list of motives include strange and unholy rites?” I jerk my head around to stare at the regent. The self-satisfied look on her face warns me I will not like what comes next. “There have been many reports of your tending to Captain Dunois when he fell from his horse. I am not convinced that it wasn’t you who killed him.”
“Those were not unholy rites,” I say tightly, “but earthly ones. Checking for wounds I might stanch, an arrow I might pluck from his chest, a puncture where poison might have entered so that I might draw it from him. That is all, my lords. That and praying.”
“Praying to the god of death,” Albi mutters.
“Praying to Saint Mortain, the patron saint of death,” I correct him sharply. “He is recognized by the Church.”
“Lady Sybella is correct.” The Bishop of Narbonne’s voice rings as clear as a bell among all the muttering. “What she, what all of Brittany, practices is not heresy.”
The look on the Bishop of Albi’s face all but screams, Not yet.
General Cassel takes a step closer, his gaze never leaving my face. “Could this man have been sent to kill the queen, and you killed him instead?”
“He could have, and I would most assuredly have stepped in to save the queen. But I’m afraid I was not given a chance to show off my skills, for that is not what happened here. Besides”—I tilt my head—“if I had, would I still be accused of murder? For daring to save our queen from an assassin?”
There is a satisfying pause as they all realize just how deep a thicket their single-minded focus has led them into. The king recovers first. “Of course not. In such a case we would thank you for saving my lady wife. Although we would prefer that any such malfeasance be brought before the king’s justice for punishment.”
“As would I. But as you no doubt know from your own experience on the battlefield, sometimes we are allowed only the briefest moment of time in which to save a life. Your Majesty, those very skills also allow me to identify the means of death. If I stand accused, I would ask to be allowed to examine the body.”
As I expected, this generates another round of outraged muttering, but again, Bishop Narbonne comes to my aid. “Of all of us, she is the best trained to make these determinations. And whether you like it or not, her worship is not heresy. Let her examine the body so that we may all learn something.”
“What if she lies?” General Cassel asks.
“The king’s physician is with the body now. Surely he will know if she is lying.”
* * *
The smell is stronger inside the small room, where the body is laid out on a thick stone table used for butchering deer and boars. The king’s physician peers up at me as I draw closer, looking in perplexity from me to the king.
“She has trained in the arts of death,” the king explains.
The physician merely nods before resuming his work.
The body is swollen and bluish white, bloated from river water. I glance up at the king. “He has been dead far longer than Monsieur Fremin’s men have been missing.” I step closer to the table, right next to the physician, who casts me one annoyed look before continuing to probe at the man’s throat. “What have you found there?” I ask as if it were not I who inflicted the wound.
“A hole,” he says.
“Like that of an arrow?” General Cassel asks.
“No,” the physician says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “It is too ragged for that. The best I can piece together is that he fell from his horse, breaking his neck. He then had the misfortune to land on a small branch poking out of the bracken.”
“Let me see.” Monsieur Fremin shoulders his way through the small gathering so he, too, can examine the body.
I keep my face focused on what the physician is doing, but my gaze follows the lawyer closely, watching to see if there is any spark of recognition. There! His pupils dilate, and his eyes start to widen before he catches himself, pulling the collar of his shirt up to cover the movement.
“Is he one of your men, Monsieur Fremin?” the king asks.
“No,” he tells the king, but it is a lie. I don’t know if he recognizes the horribly distorted face or the man’s clothing or his boots. But recognize him he does. Fremin looks from the body to me and smiles, like a man who has unexpectedly caught a hare in an old, forgotten trap.
Chapter 15
Fremin knows. The look he sent me fair trumpeted his awareness clear across the room.
Thank the saints everybody else was too busy looking at the body to notice.
But that will not last long. I’ve no doubt Fremin will find some way to use this knowledge to his advantage. Except, then he would have to admit he knew the man—which would raise new questions, and the king has not cleared him of all suspicion.
Well, not yet. But after this newest revelation, it is hard to say if that will hold. Clearly Fremin’s best hope is that I will be found guilty of this crime, but if not, he will no doubt take matters into his own hands.
A knock sounds on my door, and I scowl, wondering what new catastrophe waits on the other side. I consider not answering, but everyone saw me escorted back to my rooms. Besides, only a coward hides. I check the knives at my wrists, school my features, then head for the door, stopping as it opens and Genevieve slips in.
At the sight of her, the ugly tangle of fear that fills my belly coalesces into something hotter and far more satisfying. “What are you doing here?” I spit out. If not for her . . . I do not even let myself finish the thought lest I do something I regret. “I see that you are not confined to your chambers.”
It is hard to tell, but I think she winces slightly bef
ore her face resumes its normal impassive mask. “I have not been accused of killing four men,” she points out as she closes the door behind her.
My arm is raised, fingers curled, before I catch myself and wrap my hands around my arms instead of punching her. I storm over to the window and stare the long way down into the courtyard. The room is quiet except for the shifting of the dying embers in the grate.
“Is this newest body one of yours?”
I shoot her a scornful glance. “I am not so foolish as to hand you my secrets so you may take them back to the king.”
This time it is her fists that clench as she takes a step farther into the room. “I would not do that.”
The anger burbling through my veins does not want to believe her, but all my training and instincts fair shout at me that she is telling the truth. Even so, I owe her nothing. “You betrayed us once before.”
Her soft mouth grows hard. “I was wrong—but that does not make my actions a betrayal. Knowing the king’s own ambitions and devotion to the Church, it made complete sense that he would shut down the worship of the Nine.”
I cannot argue, because that seems to be precisely what he is doing now that he has learned of it.
“So yes, I believed it. And I wanted to fix it. I could not accept that I had been sired by Mortain for no other reason than to molder in an obscure castle under the leering eye of a debauched lord.”
Although her face is carefully arranged, it is clear how very young she is, for all that I am only a year older than she. And like me, from twelve on, she lived in a hostile household, where she needed to conceal her every thought and true action from everyone around her.
