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She nudges me again. “It does not hurt that he is well-built and strong, and looks as if he knows how to please a wom—”
“Maman.” I smile and shake my head.
“Do you like your life, Genevieve?”
The question catches me off-guard, her gaze intense as it tries to peer into my very soul. “It has many advantages,” I say. “Although there have been periods that were harder than I imagined they would be.”
She gives a little shrug of her shoulders. “That is true of all lives.” Then she reaches for my hand, tugs it. “Come.” She rises, pulling me along with her toward the back corner of the garden, where she plants the turnips and carrots and onions every year. She glances around, as if to ensure there is no one to see.
She counts off twelve paces from the east corner of the hen house, then takes the stick I still carry in my hand. She kneels on the ground and counts out four hand lengths and begins to dig. When she is done, she looks around once more, then pulls something from the ground. As I kneel down beside her, she brushes it off, and thrusts it into my hand. “Here.”
Dirt still clings to the small cloth bag, the leather cord nearly eaten away by worms and the damp. My hand shakes a little as I open it. Shiny gold coins wink out at me.
“What is this?” My voice trembles.
“It is for you,” she says, pleased with herself. “I have always told you I wanted you to have choices. I have kept this so if you did not like the life you were living, you would have something to start over with.”
She did not take the coins for herself. She took them for me. Even then, determined that I should have not just one more choice than she did, but several.
“Maman, you and Sanson could use this. The tavern still needs a new roof.”
My mother waves her hand. “The tavern will always need a new roof, the beds new mattresses, and the pot more mending. But you, you are my only daughter, and I have always wanted more for you.”
“The day you left me at the convent, why did you not turn back to bid me goodbye?”
She cups one hand, still gritty with dirt, around my cheek. “You were having a hard enough time parting ways. I did not want you to see me weeping.”
I throw my arms around her and allow myself, allow us, to have the hug we denied ourselves that day. And just like that, the entire world shifts, casting itself in a new light. Her words have removed the bandages from a wound I never had, but carefully guarded and protected nonetheless.
I wipe the dampness from my face and give the bag back to her. “Keep it for me. I’ll come back when I have need.” And I mean it. That small bag has opened up yet another road on my horizon, and it will be there should I need to take it.
Chapter 96
Sybella
Chateau Givrand sits on a small finger of land that thrusts aggressively into the sea, the waves lapping at the base of the west wall of the castle. It is made of thick, rough gray stone with narrow arrow slits for windows. One wall of the main tower is still reddened and blackened by a centuries-old fire. It is old, and the chateau is of little strategic value now that silt has reduced the usefulness of the nearby port. Everyone will assume that Pierre has returned to his stronghold in Limoges. Few—if any—even know of my family’s holding south of Givrand. It is the last place anyone will think to look—if they even remember it at all.
There is only one approach, a long narrow road that leads to the square courtyard built upon the rock. When we are safely inside the keep, they remove my shackles and Pierre leads me to the wide spiral stairway that leads from the castle yard to the main hall.
The first floor of the keep is used for storage, the second is the guards’ room, and the two upper floors have been given over to the family apartments.
Pierre leads me to the fourth floor. As he escorts me down the dark cramped gallery, one of the doors opens and a woman steps out carrying a cloth-covered bowl. She is tall and thin, and was once elegant, but no longer. When she sees us, she grows motionless, waiting for us to pass. Our eyes meet, and with a shock, I recognize Madame Dinan. Her face is pale, not fashionably so, but drawn with it. Hatred shines bright in her eyes, animating an otherwise lifeless face.
“What is she doing here?” Her harsh words thrust into the silence of the hallway.
“The king has finally given me custody of her,” Pierre calls over his shoulder. “This was the closest holding.”
“She cannot stay,” she calls after his retreating back.
He stops walking so suddenly that I nearly plow into him, stepping nimbly aside just in time. Ignoring me, he slowly strides back toward Madame Dinan. “What did you say?” His words are couched in polite tones that do nothing to hide the threat lurking there.
Madame raises her head, gaze flitting briefly to his before fluttering away again. “I said she cannot stay.”
He takes a step closer, crowding her. “You do not give the orders here.”
She does not look at him, but at me, taking her strength from the hatred she harbors. “It is not your holding,” she says, and I cannot help but admire her foolish bravery. “It is still your father’s. Until he is dead, it is his, and he would not want her here.”
“But as he cannot tell me that, I shall be the one to decide, and I say she stays.”
Madame Dinan’s mouth works, twisting and pursing with all the words she wishes to say, but dares not. I think of all the sharp, witty, biting responses I have heard over the years, unsurprised that my family has finally driven them from her tongue.
“Now get rid of that slop,” he says, and stalks back down the hall to where I wait in silence. He sends one malevolent gaze my way, then resumes walking. My mind can hardly wrap itself around Madame. Her sharp, brittle elegance worn down to naught but a drudge.
Pierre stops again, this time opening a door. “Here is your room. There will be two guards posted outside. Be wise, sister dearest, and do not make this any harder than it has to be.”
I smile prettily at him. “I am certain I shall enjoy your generous hospitality, my lord.” He grabs my shoulder and shoves me into the room. As he steps outside, he motions the two guards forward and closes the door behind him.
I do not move, but stand perfectly still, willing my heart and my lungs to calm themselves. Force myself to feel my feet still anchored to the floor. My body that is not—yet—in any pain or danger. Finally, when I can draw a full breath and my hands do not shake, I allow myself to take stock of my room.
It is small and dark, dank and damp from the ocean outside. There is but one window, too high and narrow to climb out of. Nevertheless, I cross over to it and peer out, straight down to the sea hurling itself at the rocks below. Perhaps a mouse could scale that wall, but he would have to become a fish once he reached the bottom.
There is an unlit fireplace, and a bed with faded green curtains, and two thick, dusty tapestries.
I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. I am not a prisoner, I remind myself. I am here by choice. I am hoping that Pierre has something that will prove Rohan’s—and the regent’s—involvement in the rebellion. Once I have that, I shall leave. I glance back at the window. Somehow.
As I am considering yanking one of the curtains from the bed to use as an extra cloak, the door opens and two servants come in bearing my trunk, a woman close on their heels. As they set my trunk down, she tells them, “Light the fire, and find some candles.”
The familiarity of that voice has me reeling. “Jamette?” I ask, half fearing my mind has given in to panic in spite of my resolve.
The fire catches, casting a glow into the room. Moments later, three candles flare to life, and I see that it is, indeed, Jamette and that she is watching me.
“You may leave,” she tells the servants, who hastily do as instructed.
Once they have gone, I take a step toward her. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to leave when you had the chance!” While I have never borne her any love, it was her love for Julian that ultimately allowed me to live, and I would not wish my worst enemy a place in this household.
Her pretty pink lip curls. “Where was I to go? You killed my father. I had no one else.”
“There are other places you could have gone. Nantes alone has scores of convents that would have granted you sanctuary—”
“A nunnery!” she scoffs.
“Or the Arduinnites!”
“A pack of wild women who live in the forest? Surely you jest.”
I want to shake her shoulders till her teeth rattle. “Surely anyplace would be better than here. Julian would not want you to—”
“Do not dare speak his name! I gave you that knife to save him. Not you. You were supposed to offer yourself up on your father’s sword so he could live.”
“I tried.” My voice is as bleak as the memory. Oh, how I tried. “But Julian would have none of it.”
