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“What?”
“It would be best if you could do it without asking questions.”
She raised one eyebrow. “It would be best if Tassin would quit picking his teeth after he eats, but that doesn’t seem likely.”
Maraud sighed. “I need you to get a message to someone.”
“There’s a reason you can’t go?”
Maraud looked over at the queen’s departing procession. “Because the person is in residence at the palace.”
Valine gave a low whistle. “Good reason. Now for the important question. Who am I to get this message to? Do they have information on Cassel?”
Maraud grabbed on to that. “Yes, I think they do.”
“Okay, then. Who and when?”
Maraud casually looked up as if admiring the cathedral. “Lucinda,” he told the spires that towered above them.
When the quiet stretched out so far he thought she hadn’t heard, he risked glancing back at her. She was smirking. “Jaspar owes me. I knew things weren’t over between you two.”
“You placed a wager?”
She ignored his offended pride. “What makes you think she’s at the palace?”
“I saw her just now. She was riding with the queen’s attendants and courtiers.”
Valine whistled again. “Coming up in the world is our Lucinda. I wonder who she’s planning to poison this time.”
Maraud sighed. “And if you don’t say anything to the others, I’ll pay you twice whatever Jaspar owes you.”
Chapter 41
Genevieve
We do not stay at the royal palace in the old city but cross the river to the Louvre, which sits on the right bank of the Seine. It is the moment I’ve come to hate the most—this arriving at a new place for the night. The long moments of awkwardness strung out like pearls on a chain, each one plump with dread and embarrassment at the last-minute scramble to decide where to put me.
But this time, it seems to all have been decided beforehand, and an understeward escorts me past the queen’s apartments on the ground floor to a chamber on the first floor, where the king’s rooms are. It is a large, well-appointed room, the sort that would be assigned to a court favorite. It is less heavy feeling than most of the palace rooms. Perhaps because the rich curtains and wall hangings are of a softer blue, shot through with yellow. A large canopied bed dominates one wall, and an equally large fireplace the other. The third wall holds an oriel window—a true luxury.
The understeward’s gaze lingers briefly on my necklace before he bows out of the room. I have gotten somewhat used to the opulence of the French court after the last five years, but have never had it lavished on me. Not wishing to dwell on what it might mean, I cross to the window. It looks down into the palace courtyard, the stables and barns to the north, the armory and smithy to the south. The courtyard itself is full of vendor stalls—indeed, it is nearly a small market—set up to take advantage of the arrival of all the nobles with their easy coin. My stomach twists in hunger—not for what they are selling, but for the freedom of being outside wandering in a crowd, unwatched.
At the door I pause, trying to decide the best approach. In the end, I decide to brazen it out. I have not been forbidden to go anywhere. Yet.
I open the door and step into the hallway, smiling brightly at the guards. “I’m going to visit the market stalls,” I say as I begin walking. Gilbert gapes at me, then looks to Roland, unsure what to do. Before they can decide to stop me, I call out over my shoulder, “Well, are you coming?” I flutter my lashes. As always, Gilbert grows flustered and blushes, but it diverts his mind from protesting.
* * *
Outside in the courtyard, rubbing shoulders with pie sellers and ribbon vendors, fruit mongers and wine merchants, my skin pulls less tightly over my bones, and it is easier to breathe.
Gilbert and Roland are uneasy in the crowd. Not for fear of me wandering away, but simply because they are as out of place as a two-headed cat. Ignoring them, I peruse the bright silken ribbons fluttering gaily in the breeze.
A woman examining a length of green cord brushes against my skirts, then murmurs an apology. “I beg pardon, my lady. No offense.”
My hand on the ribbon stills. The voice is familiar and a jolt of recognition flares through me. While she now wears the gown and the headscarf of a serving woman, it is Valine.
As she slowly drifts over to the fruit seller’s stall, a hundred different possibilities run through my head, none of them pleasant.
With a quick glance at my constant shadows, I stroll after her, as if she is a serving woman I am familiar with. When I am close enough, I murmur, “What are you doing here? Is Maraud hurt?”
She shoots me a sideways look before directing her attention back to the fruit. “And why, I wonder, is that your first worry?”
I open my mouth, then realize I have no explanation. “Mercenaries lead dangerous lives, and he is not one to shy away from impossible odds. It is not so strange an assumption.”
She runs her finger along the skin of a golden late-winter pear. “No,” she agrees amiably. “But one could also conclude you had reason to think he might be injured.” Her gaze rakes over me, taking in my gown, my necklace. Her lip curls faintly.
She knows. She knows Maraud was not overcome with wine sickness, but that I had something to do with it. Mayhap he could not be bothered to exact vengeance himself and has sent her in his stead.
I, too, study the pears. “Do not play coy. It does not suit you any more than it suits me. I gave him a draft so he would not follow me and do something foolish. I am not trying to hide it from you.”
She looks up, weighing and assessing my words as surely as her fingers weigh and assess the pear in her hand. She lightly drops it back into the basket. “Now, that does sound like him. And no, he is not dead or injured or even fighting a chill.”
“Then why are you here? And how did you find me?”
“He saw you in the procession this morning. He was most . . . surprised.” The sideways glance she casts confirms my suspicion that that word was not her first choice. “He wishes to speak with you.”
My heart lifts even as my stomach drops, and a dozen different thoughts and possibilities crowd into my head. I resist the urge to check over my shoulders for my guards. “Why?”
An amused smile plays about her lips. As much as I like her, my hand itches to smack it off her face. I pick up an apple instead.
“He wishes to learn about General Cassel before he approaches the court.”
Of course. Understanding is followed closely by an inexplicable disappointment. “It is a wise move. The general is in the deep confidences of the king.”
Valine swears softly. “Which makes this twice a fool’s errand, then.”
“You do not approve of his desire for justice?”
“I highly approve of his desire for justice. It is his belief that he can find it at court that causes me to think he has exchanged his brains for a turnip.”
“It will not be easy,” I agree. “Cassel counsels the king in many things, not simply battle strategy.”
Valine sighs down at the pear, as if it is too poor a quality to purchase. “Well, he will not believe it from my lips—they have said as much a dozen times already. Perhaps he will believe it from yours. He suggested meeting tonight. There is to be a coronation ball, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“He thinks that will provide the best opportunity for him to get onto the palace grounds and allow you to slip away from your . . . duties. Where shall I tell him to meet you?”
“There is no good place.” Nowhere that is safe from the king and his spies. Or the regent and hers.
“He said you might balk. If you did, I was to remind you that you owe him at least this much.”
“Do I? Even after I saved his life—four times—at Camulos’s Cup?”
She nods her head, conceding the point. “Sometimes anger makes us forget how the scales of justice are weighed.”
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What should I tell her? To slip out and meet him risks destroying the fragile trust I am trying to build with the king.
As if that is not already lying shattered at my feet.
The king has not visited me in over two weeks. It is possible that, having punished me, he is done with the matter.
“Although he would gut me if he knew I told you, Maraud thinks of you constantly.” Valine’s voice is soft with the affection she holds for him.
And I him, I want to say, but do not. However, my capacity for hope is larger than my ability to learn from my mistakes. “Very well. Tell him to meet me at—” My mind scrambles, trying to come up with a likely location where we won’t be discovered. “The smithy. And for the love of the saints, tell him to wear a disguise lest he be recognized.”
