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“But surely he should hear of crimes his own general has committed in his name,” Maraud counters.
The general’s face grows red, and he takes another step forward.
“General!” the king says sharply. “If you cannot get ahold of yourself, you may wait outside.”
Maraud returns his attention to the king. “The story starts on the battlefield of Saint-Aubin-du-Cormier, where my brothers and I fought alongside Duke Francis. It was”—Maraud’s lips twist in a wry smile—“a rout, clear to all of us on the field that Your Majesty’s forces had won and the best course of action was to surrender and save further bloodshed.”
“Which the duke did.” The king sits with his elbow on the arm of his chair, listening intently.
“As we all did. Including my brother. He surrendered and laid down his sword, as noble knights have done since the time of Charlemagne, expecting quarter and ransom. Instead”—Maraud shoots Cassel a look heated enough to melt iron—“the general accepted his surrender and his sword, then beheaded him there on the field.”
A collective gasp goes up among the king’s advisors, and the bishops cross themselves.
The king turns cold eyes on his general. “Is this true?”
General Cassel stands rigidly straight, shoulders back. “It is true that I slayed enemy combatants, Your Majesty. Traitors who had taken up arms against their rightful sovereign. My instructions were to put down the duke’s insurrection at any cost.”
“I meant spare no effort and explore all tactics. I did not mean to spit on the accepted form of honorable surrender and kill in cold blood.”
The general’s hands twitch ever so slightly, and he shifts his gaze to the wall behind the king.
“Ives was my last surviving brother. When the general learned who I was, he devised a different fate for me.”
“A hostage,” the king says.
“Yes. A message was sent to my father, informing him that the price of returning his last remaining son was preventing the marriage of Anne of Brittany to Count d’Albret and arranging for the duchy to fall into French hands.”
“He lies!” The words explode from the general. “He was dressed as a common mercenary. I did not know he was Crunard’s son.”
“Is this true?”
“I was dressed as a mercenary, sire, but it was well known that as a fourth son, I fought with the mercenaries who served Brittany rather than under my father’s banner.”
The king leans forward, his face almost hungry. “You defied your father?”
“We had different ideas on how a man should live his life, what loyalty looked like, and where our duties lay.”
The king carefully banks all the questions burning within him and instead asks, “What happened then?”
“I was imprisoned at Baugé, then taken to Cognac and placed in Angoulême’s dungeon.” The king’s glance darts briefly in my direction. “I was held for nearly a year before being placed in the oubliette.”
The king unleashes his full anger on the general. “You took a man of noble birth who was deserving of every honor and courtesy, not to mention ransom, and put him in one of those rat holes?”
Cassel gives a sharp shake of his head. “That was not on my order, Your Majesty.”
“Then whose?”
Maraud lets the silence draw out before saying, “I believe it was the regent’s.”
Chapter 101
“Yet more lies, Your Majesty!” The regent shoves her way through the small wall of advisors between her and the king.
“He does not lie, Madame.” My own voice echoes into the room, surprising everyone. It is also the first time Maraud sees me. A brief measure of warmth crosses his face, then is gone, nothing in his expression indicating that we are acquainted. “You forget that I, too, resided at Cognac and can confirm the order you sent Count Angoulême.”
For a moment, I half fear the regent will launch herself at me and strangle me with her bare hands. “How do you know?”
I say nothing—she knows I am convent sent, and she can guess how I acquired such information. Feeling the room turn against her, she glares at me a moment longer, then collects herself before returning her attention to the king. “If he was placed in such a fetid rat hole, how does he come to be here at court in front of us?”
“Would you care to enlighten us?” the king asks Maraud.
“After I had been in the pit for weeks—possibly months, time has no meaning there—I heard a voice.” His own has fallen into the rhythm of the mummers when they tell stories. The king, the bishops, even the general and regent hang on every word. “Since I was certain I was dying, I thought it an angel, but no. It was a lady, a lady who served the convent of Saint Mortain—”
The bishops take in a collective gasp, and the king’s gaze darts to me once again, but briefly.
“She brought me water, fed me. Spoke with me and pulled me back from the darkness that had encircled me for so long.” I am struck by how he tells the story, making me out to be the hero of it. “I trusted her enough to share my tale.” How easily he polishes over all the distrust between us. “When it was time for her to leave Cognac, she freed me from my prison out of fear I would die there.”
“She did not attempt to murder you?” the Bishop of Albi asks.
“Never,” Maraud answers, his face the very picture of innocence and truth. Truly, he has missed his calling. “It was her convent skills that allowed us to escape.”
“How many did she kill, then?” the bishop presses.
“None. The only time she killed was when we were attacked by brigands, and then she simply fought back—as any man would and with equal skill.” A faint heat suffuses my cheeks, and pleasure warms my gut at his description.
“When was that?” the regent demands.
“Near Christmastime.”
“That was five months ago. Where have you been since?”
“First I went to Flanders looking for General Cassel, but he was no longer there. Next I came to Paris to bring my case before the king. Alas, before I could do that, I was detained and forced to go elsewhere.”
“Forced,” the regent scoffs, her eyes taking in the height and breadth of Maraud.
“You do not believe men can be forced, Madame Regent?” he asks.
“Not men who are as skilled as you claim to be.”
“Well,” he concedes, “it was not merely one man, but a dozen of them.”
The king leans forward in his chair. “Do you know who they were?”
“It was Pierre d’Albret.”
Though the regent maintains her composure, I sense the faint spark of panic she is trying so desperately to hide. “Why would he force you to go with him? It makes no sense.”
“D’Albret was holding my father hostage in an attempt to lure me to his side.”
“But why?” the king asks.
“He wished me to participate in the rebellion in Brittany, along with him and Viscount Rohan. Pierre felt my father could be of help, and that he would cooperate more freely if I was there to threaten him with.”
The king’s gaze grows sharp enough to cut glass as he looks at his sister. “This corroborates what the others have said, that Viscount Rohan was behind the rebellion, not the queen.”
Maraud shakes his head. “The queen had no part in the rebellion. If not for the aid she sent, Rohan would have succeeded in his attempt.”
“Have Viscount Rohan returned to court immediately,” the king orders. “I find I have a number of questions for him.”
“Sire.” The regent steps forward. “This has already been proved. What this man spouts is nothing but pure lies.”
“I grow bored with that excuse, sister. What he says fits too neatly with what Lady Sybella and Sir Waroch have claimed. What does he have to gain by lying?”
With her mouth pinched tight, the regent thrusts her arms out in my direction. “Because she was the assassin who helped him.” A faint buzz of muttering rises from the bishops.
“I am aware of that,” the king says.
His public admission of that knowledge gives the regent pause. She has one less weapon to use against him now. “Then can you not see? They are lovers! He is lying to protect his lover from her involvement in the rebellion.”
In the silence that follows, I do not look at Maraud, nor does he look at me. I keep my attention focused on the regent and force my heart to keep beating, my lungs to keep breathing. Slowly, as if it pains him greatly, the king turns to me. “Is this true?”
