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“That is only six,” he says.
“There is one other small convent, the convent of Saint Mer, but they are concerned only with the sea. Those who serve Arduinna have no convent, choosing instead to live in the forest in small groups. As for the followers of Dea Matrona . . .” I frown. “There are no convents, but crones, I believe, who live at the edges of the forest and villages. But other than blessing the fields before planting, I do not know what they do.”
The king gives a noncommittal grunt.
“As you can see, sire, not much of a threat to anyone, let alone the power of the Church. Or yourself.”
“The power does not lie in them, but in what your queen will do in their name.”
“Do you not see that most of the queen’s actions would not have been needed if not for the regent and her scheming? Can you not see how hard your sister has worked to discredit the queen? Drive a wedge between the two of you?”
“The regent didn’t force the queen to go behind my back and send men to Brittany.”
“Are you so very certain of that? Who intercepted all her correspondence, leaving her no choice but to use messengers? Who brought d’Albret’s lawyer to court and allowed him immediate access to you? If you look closely enough, every time the queen has moved in a way you didn’t like, it is because Madame—and occasionally yourself—gave her no other choice.”
“How do you know all this?”
I shrug. “I have spoken with both the queen and Sybella, Your Majesty. That is no secret.”
“They lie.”
“While it is possible they may lie to you—out of fear—they would have no reason to lie to me.”
He is quiet then, pondering my words. “The regent did not force Sybella to lie to me about her sisters.” He takes a step toward me. “Did you know she had them sent away from here? That they were not abducted?”
“She did not tell me that, no. But it is good news. Surely you think so as well. Better to have them safe, even if a lie was required to keep them so.”
“I would have protected them.”
“I know you would have, if you had believed there was a threat against them. But you did not believe Sybella until I revealed that Monsieur Fremin appeared in her room carrying a blade and a length of rope.”
My words discomfit him, and he turns to face the fire. Pressing my advantage, I ask, “Why are you not equally outraged by the lies General Cassel has told you?”
He waves his hand, dismissing them. “It was an indiscretion of his youth. He swore he would never do such a thing now.”
“Such a thing as rape Sir Waroch’s mother?”
“A youthful indiscretion,” the king insists stubbornly.
“He was older than you when it happened. Would you commit such a youthful indiscretion?”
“Never!” I see the moment he remembers laying his hands on me roughly.
“No,” I say softly. “You didn’t. You stopped yourself. Why should General Cassel be held to lesser standards? Besides, who knows how many times Cassel has done such a thing?”
“He was young,” the king repeats mulishly, and I want to reach out and shake his rutting shoulders.
“He was older than the queen is now, when she acted out of true concern for her countrymen. Why are you so willing to forgive him, but not her?” When he says nothing, I step out onto the thinnest of ice and continue. “It cannot be because you think she took something from you, while Cassel’s transgression hurt another.”
It is exactly that, of course, but in so asking, it forces him to see that truth, and he does not like it.
“If General Cassel holds no honor in how he treats women, where else is his honor lacking?” I want so desperately to tell him of Maraud’s brother, Ives, but it is not my story to tell. Instead, “I have heard rumors,” I say.
The king’s head snaps up. “What rumors?”
“Among the men at Cognac, those who served with Angoulême. They said General Cassel did not observe the custom of ransom. That he coldly butchered those who had laid down their swords in surrender.”
The king grows pale. “I have never heard such claims. That goes against all constraints of honor.”
What he means is, it is one thing to show dishonor to a mere woman, and something else entirely to show dishonor to a man of his own rank.
“Everyone knows how you favor General Cassel, Your Majesty. Mayhap they did not have the courage to tell you.
“What will you do?” My voice is soft, hopefully naught but an echo of the very question he is asking himself.
“I don’t know.” He faces me then. No, not me, but the wall behind me. I turn to look, my eyes landing on the painting his father gave him. I did not realize he had it brought with the other household items from Plessis.
Something inside me snaps. “Do not look at that be-damned painting,” I all but shout. “It is as much a chain around your neck as this silver one is around mine.”
His eyes widen, and at first I think it is because he recognizes the truth in my words. But when he raises his gaze to me, it is shuttered and tight. “You go too far. Get out,” he says.
In that moment, all his smallness and narrow-mindedness is as vivid as the painting, and I would happily leave him to the political machinations of his devious sister—if it were not for all the other lives that hang in the balance.
Chapter 62
Maraud
When Pierre d’Albret and his men had surrounded Maraud on his way to the fletcher’s hut and said, “You are coming with me,” Maraud had laughed.
Until Pierre had said, “We have someone who is very much counting on your cooperation.” Then he was terrified. Terrified that somehow, Pierre d’Albret had seen him and Genevieve together. Terrified that she was the someone d’Albret was so confident he would want to see.
“As I told you back in Angoulême,” Pierre had continued, “I have a proposition that will hold great personal interest for you, and I will not take no for an answer. Unless you do not care if you ever see that person alive again.”
Maraud’s mind kept trying to imagine what d’Albret’s men might be doing to Gen even as he reassured himself Pierre couldn’t have stridden into the palace, past all the king’s guards and men-at-arms, and abducted her.
Except Pierre was also a guest at the palace and likely was not given a second glance. Or, worse, his every whim was seen to.
There was a second option that was less terrifying, but just as bleak. That she would have no choice but to think he’d begged and pleaded with her to come with him, only to abandon her. Knowing her, she’d assume he’d planned that since he first came to her in Paris, set her up for the fall she no doubt thought she deserved. That thought was a twist of a knife in his vital organs rather than a full disemboweling.
But at least that meant she was safe. By the horns of Camulos, he prayed it was so.
Chapter 63
Sybella
“Why am I always the one in the servant’s gown?” Gen mutters. Because I do not know what I will find or whether I will need a diversion, I have brought her with me to the donjon.
That and to keep the regent from pouncing on her unawares again.
“Because I am visiting the prisoner on behalf of the queen, who wishes her loyal knight to have this book of hours to sustain him through his time in captivity. There are just enough who are aware that Beast and I have a connection that if I were to be seen dressed as a servant, it would immediately raise suspicion.”
Gen nudges me to silence then. We have reached the donjon. The central tower is the oldest part of the palace and surrounded by a ditch. A guardhouse—holding four heartbeats—sits next to the only entrance. I nod at Gen, and we use the shadows to move along the edge of the guardhouse to the stairway beyond. As we creep down the steps, I listen carefully for heartbeats below, but hear none. However, the stone walls are twelve feet thick, so we remain cautious.
When we reach the deepest level, I step off the st
airs. The donjon may be old, but it is well maintained. Iron lanterns, rather than torches, hang from hooks in the wall, and full suits of armor stand at regular intervals. Whether it is intended to trick others into believing there are more guards than there are or simply a testament to France’s sense of grandeur, I do not know. I listen again. I am able to feel Beast’s heart, as steady and familiar as my own, but that is all.
Gen remains behind at the foot of the stairs to keep watch as I follow the curving wall past a half dozen empty rooms—some with iron bars and others with thick, iron-banded oak doors with naught but tiny, barred windows—and a small table underneath one of the iron lanterns on the wall. They have stripped Beast of all his possessions and laid them here upon this table. My hand twitches, wishing to retrieve at least some of them for safekeeping, but I do not know how thorough an inventory they took.
The moment I approach Beast’s door, he lifts his head. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and there is a cut on his lip. When I drop the shadows from me as I would a cloak, he surges to his feet and comes to the door. The hardened resignation on his face melts away like smoke and is replaced by a lopsided grin that causes his lip to start bleeding.
“This brings back fond memories.” His voice is the rasp of a sharpening stone on dull iron.
I shake my head. He is as resilient as gristle. “You are fond of dungeons?”
He places his hand upon his chest. “But of course. I first met you in a dungeon.”
The foolish man will have my heart melt into a useless puddle at my feet. “The queen sent me.” I do not tell him of the regent’s ultimatum. There is nothing he can do about it from here, and worrying on it might cause him to do something truly witless.
His face sobers. “I was hoping she would.”
