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“Do you really wish to have this conversation here, Your Majesty?”
“Answer.” If I thought him hard and impassive when he learned of my participation in quelling the rebellion, it is nothing compared to the sense of deep, personal betrayal lurking in his eyes right now.
I look over at Maraud. His face is devoid of expression, as if bracing for what he already knows I must say. If I wish to keep the king’s favor, I must deny him again. But I have already denied him three times and caused him to doubt his own sanity with my lies.
I am done with lies. “Yes, Your Majesty. Sir Crunard and I were lovers.” I stare at the king, willing him to understand there is more to the story than that. That I knew Maraud before I knew him. I want to explain to him the hundreds of nuances to the entire situation, but his mind—and his heart—are closed to me.
Breathy whispers race around the room, and General Cassel looks as victorious as if he’d just reconquered the Holy Land. While I expect to see anger writ raw upon the king’s face, instead I see disinterest, almost boredom. “Take her away,” he orders.
“And if they would lie about that, Your Majesty, it surely proves that they would also lie about what he claims he saw on the battlefield.”
“While I have no proof of what happened on the battlefield that day,” Maraud’s voice rings out, “I do have proof of who was behind the rebellion.” He takes a pouch from his belt and withdraws a piece of red and yellow fabric from it. He unrolls the banner Andry stole from Rohan, then tosses the grisly contents onto the floor before the regent’s feet. Everyone pauses, even the guards escorting me from the room.
“These are the signet rings of the two English barons leading the troops Rohan invited to join him.”
The king’s gaze remains fixed on the two fingers. “How many troops?”
“Four thousand.”
“Where are they now?”
“Dead.”
The regent gasps, drawing the king’s attention.
“And Rohan was not the one who killed them,” Maraud adds.
Then the guards remember their duty, and I am led away.
Chapter 102
Sybella
Once I am finally alone in my chamber, all the pain and horror I have been feeling comes over me in a wave. Too late, too late, too late.
No. I shove the panic away. This disaster will not break me, although disaster seems far too tame a word. Surely it is a tragedy. A tragedy that the d’Albret family insists on eating its young. How many more will be destroyed by its foul legacy? So far, only Louise has escaped.
Unless Charlotte has told Pierre where Louise is. I clutch at my stomach. No, if she had, he would have crowed about that as well.
Unless he is waiting to spring it on me as yet another surprise. Sweet Jesu.
Too late, too late, too late.
The words gnaw on my heart, wearing it ragged.
Cold. I am so cold. I cross over to the fire and place my hands before the flames, rubbing them over the heat, using the sensation to find a way back into my body and away from my turbulent thoughts.
The heat of the flames licks my skin, and I close my eyes to pray. As the warmth begins coursing through me, I realize I am not too late. I was farther gone than Charlotte when I came to the convent, and they did not give up on me. They did not leave me to my fate, no matter how much I, in my panicked unreason, kept trying to escape.
They did not give up on me, and I will not give up on Charlotte. I will drag her away, again and again and again, until she finds herself ready to be reborn. Not through the same flames I endured, but there are other ways to begin anew.
My panic falls away from me, and I clench my hands and stare into the fire. I will find the proof I need to clear the queen’s name, collect my sister, and destroy Pierre.
But how? Especially without getting Charlotte or myself killed in the process?
With flame, the fire whispers. Or mayhap it is the memory of Lazare’s voice when he told us fire was the best way for a few to take down many. Either way, once the idea has formed, I know it is the right one. It is the instrument of the Dark Mother herself, after all. Now I must simply find the means to apply it.
* * *
The next night at supper, I spend most of my meal looking out over the hall full of men gorging themselves on food and wine. I can feel Charlotte watching me, feel Pierre watching us both, but I ignore them and act as if I am considering which stud to add to my stable.
When the food is cleared away, the men move to other entertainments—dicing, arm wrestling, and loud arguments over nothing. I sip my wine, my face a mask of ennui.
Charlotte’s eyes are still on me, and the desire to go to her, to shake her small shoulders then whisk her from the room is so overpowering that I must stand up and move lest I give in. I saunter toward the towering fireplace to watch the dice game, boredom and indifference dripping from every pore, which only makes the men compete harder to capture my interest.
Under the guise of allowing one of my servants to refill my wine, I glance up at the high table, relieved to see that both Madame Dinan and Charlotte have left. Good. Now I may set my plan into motion.
On the next bet placed, I raise my eyebrow and murmur into my cup, “Such an unadventurous bet, Sir Knight.” His face flushes at my words, but it is too late to change it, for the other man rolls. He wins, then doubles his bet for the next roll. As does his opponent. In no time at all, the mood around the game grows heated. The stakes have been raised. They are not just playing for coin, but for their pride.
And, they think, my attention. Possibly even my favor. It takes less than a half an hour for a fight to break out, one men bellowing “Cheater!” before launching himself at another. Around them, the crowd cheers and urges them on as they crash into one of the tables. Before they have finished, two of Pierre’s burliest guards wade in and pull them apart.
Pierre comes to stand just behind me, seething. “What do you think you are doing?”
I glance up at him with innocent eyes. “Watching the entertainment.”
He grabs my elbow and hauls me away from the flying fists. “You started this.”
“How? I wasn’t even playing.”
He glares at me. “Would you be happier confined to your chamber?”
“Of course not. I should go even more mad with boredom. You must know I am not the sort who can be cooped up for days and nights on end, stitching.”
His eyes narrow. “What would you prefer?”
“To go riding—”
“Not on your life.”
“Or hawking?”
“How stupid do you think I am, to let you out of the keep for even a minute?”
“You cannot expect me to sit here like an andiron. You said it yourself, I am not made to be a lapdog. I grow too restless, and it is not healthy for me. Besides, you don’t want me to grow soft and lazy before you even have a chance to use my skills, do you?”
His hands are balled into fists as he glares at me. “You may walk the yard. As much as you’d like. But not alone.”
“Yes, yes. My guards, I know.”
“Not only them, for I can see how easily you can twist them around your finger. Jamette will go with you.” He leans in close, bringing his lips to my ear. “No one knows where you are. No one is coming to save you, and there is no way out of this holding. Best get that through your beautiful skull.”
I reward him with an amused grin. “My, how you do go on about a demoiselle just wanting some fresh air.”
Chapter 103
Genevieve
It takes three days, three days of pacing my small room, with no word or news of anyone—not so much as a pitcher of water to wash with—before the king decides to seek me out. Of course I have not been idle. I have spent the nights—when the hallways are thick with darkness—searching for Sybella’s room. To my immense frustration, it is not in one of the towers, which means the king has put her in the dungeon.
; When I hear the latch thrown back, I think it is the guard getting ready to toss the midday meal at me. Instead, the king strides in and closes the door behind him.
His immaculate dress makes me immediately conscious of how grubby I am—it is all I can do not to fidget or tuck my unraveling braid behind my ear. Instead I square my shoulders and curtsy. He says nothing, drawing closer, his gaze roaming over me.
“You may stand,” he says at last. “I do not wish to talk to the top of your head.”
As I rise to my feet, a small sliver of hope also rises with me.
“I will tell them to bring you a bath.”
