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She opens her mouth to argue, but he puts his hand up to silence her. “You are to listen today, not speak.” Her mouth snaps shut and for all that she tries to hide it, she looks truly concerned for the first time since I have known her.
“To ensure that such unsupported claims are not made in the future, you will be signing an agreement declaring your aid and support of our queen and swearing that you will not set your allies upon her. The agreement will also be entered into and signed by the Duke of Orléans and your husband. Nod if you understand.”
She hesitates, drawing the moment out, longing to defy him, calculating. Concluding that she does not have any rope left, she nods once.
“I want to be most clear on this. If you move against my queen again, it will be treason.” The king motions to his steward, who hurries forward with a small table. Next the Bishop of Narbonne steps forward and lays several sheets of parchment on the table. “If you will please read the document so you understand all that you are agreeing to, then sign it.”
Again the regent hesitates. This time, she looks to her husband, but he merely stares back at her, appearing more than a little repulsed. With no other options before her, she turns to the document, making a show of reading it carefully. At last she signs with a flourish. “This is not necessary, you know. I have nothing but your best int—”
“Sir Beaujeu, you may now sign the agreement.”
The Duke of Bourbon steps forward and signs, not bothering to read it, which makes me think that he has seen it before. This is confirmed when the Duke of Orléans signs, for he does not read it either. As the men step back, the king looks once more to his sister. “I thank you for guiding the crown when I was too young to do so, but that is no longer the case. Further, it is past time for you to look to your own holding and family. You have a daughter—turn your attention to her upbringing. Are we clear?”
The regent’s face is starkly white as she realizes she is being stripped of all power. I can see her mind churning, trying to find a way to make one last convincing argument, but the stony set of the king’s face makes it clear he will not listen. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good. Captain Stuart will escort you and your husband from the palace and see you on the road to home. General Cassel? I will speak with you next.”
When he does not come forward, it takes everyone a moment to realize he is no longer here.
Chapter 105
Sybella
It takes me two days of restlessly walking the castle yard and two trips to the chapel, Jamette sniveling at my heels, to collect most of the information I need. I contrive a visit to the stables to check on my horse, who I told her I feared was lame after our long ride here, but as I draw near the mews to see the falcons, she balks, worried I will try to send a message. I shrug and let her steer me away.
I am not after the hawks or messages, but wanting to understand every nook and cranny this holding possesses. I now know who comes and goes, what gate they use, how carefully those gates are watched. I know the patterns of the household, how many of them attend chapel and when, and how often they change the guard. I have learned the impassable barriers and the more vulnerable spots—the drains, the culverts, the shortest points on the wall, as well as the parts of it that cannot be seen by the posted sentries. All in all, I am pleased with what I have learned, although it is discouraging as well, for there are few options. However there is still one prize I seek, one that I cannot explore without raising her suspicions.
That is why I have kept us out until nearly dark. She is tired and cold and cranky and half ready to shove me into the well and be done with it. “Here, let’s go look at the handsome guards. That ought to cheer you up.” Some of the ire smooths from her face as I steer her toward the garrison.
I lean in close. “I think that tall one with the nicely shaped beard has been watching you,” I murmur in her ear, my heart twisting with guilt when I see the way her face lights up. Merde, having a conscience is tiresome. But what is her small vanity compared to Charlotte’s and Louise’s safety? While she sends flirtatious looks to the guard, I take two steps back and press myself against the wall where the shadows have lengthened. With no eyes on me, it is easy enough to cloak myself in their darkness as I hurry back across the courtyard to the artillery. That—and what it might contain—is at the heart of my plan.
I scuttle around to the backside of the building, where no one can see. This building is newer than the keep, and the windows lower and wider. When working with cannon and gunpowder, one needs all the light one can find in order to avoid a fatal mistake.
Using my elbow, I scrub the glass clean of dust and peer in, my heart giving a skip of joy. The light does not penetrate far into the room, and the keep has not been garrisoned for battle in at least fifty years, but through the gloom I see a number of large, lumpy shapes covered with canvas—at least three of which I recognize as cannon. A pile of squat iron pots teeters haphazardly in one corner. They are similar to the ones the charbonnerie filled with gunpowder and used to create explosions. There are a number of long iron tubes that could be culverins. Oh! And ribauldequins! I can only pray the small kegs hold the gunpowder the ancient cannon require.
And that it has not gotten wet. Or separated. Or any number of things that would make it useless. Even so, my plan is viable.
Heartened by this, I pull the shadows close once more, then skirt the outer wall over toward the mews, where Jamette was so determined I not visit. When I am but fifteen feet away, I let the shadows drop.
A moment later, Jamette calls at me from across the yard. “Sybella!”
I pause.
“It is time to go in now.” Her voice is sharp, as if she has caught a naughty child and cannot wait to scold him. I toss my head, as if defiant, and saunter over to her. When I reach her side, she grabs my arm and gives it a painful squeeze. “Do you want me to have to report you to Pierre?”
“Of course not,” I say sharply, because it is what she expects. But I also wonder why she would hesitate.
Chapter 106
Genevieve
Once Captain Stuart has been sent off to find the general, and the regent and her husband have been escorted from the chamber, the rest of the king’s advisors begin to drift away, talking softly among themselves. I wonder how they feel about this turn of events. When the king is nearly alone, I risk coming forward, then wait for him to indicate I may approach.
When he gives me permission to speak, I ask, “When will you release Sir Waroch and Lady Sybella, Your Majesty?”
He does not meet my eye, but instead focuses on the group of men leaving the room. “Captain Stuart is on his way to release Captain Waroch as soon as he has found the general. As for Sybella, she has already been released.”
“What?” I take a step forward without thinking. “Why have I not seen her?”
He finally looks at me then. “Because she was released into Pierre d’Albret’s custody three days before you arrived.”
His words stun me as thoroughly as any blow, and for a moment, I think I will be sick.
If only I had never come to court.
If only I hadn’t spoken to the king about the convent.
If only I had returned to Nantes with Sybella and Beast instead of lingering in Brittany.
But regrets will not help anyone now. Instead, I take those feelings and shift them into something darker and more useful. Anger. I bob an abrupt curtsy at the king, then stride from the audience chamber, racing back to my room.
She has been in his custody for over a week. My body starts to tremble, not with fear, I tell myself, but with a need to fix this.
If only my foolish heart had stayed in the iron box I so carefully fashioned for it. For this, I realize, is precisely the reason I have hidden it so deeply. This is why I have always preferred my dealings with others to be negotiations or trades to be worked out. One would never give a piece of one’s heart away in a mere trade. Or worse, with nothing to show
for it but pain and a nearly suffocating remorse.
But, a small voice reminds me, you have found joy and laugher, love and grace, as well.
And while that is true, when placed on a scale that tips so heavily toward tragedy, I fear it will break my heart beyond repair.
When I reach my room, I cross to the cupboard against the wall, yank open the bottom drawer, and take out my pack—the very one I carried with me from Cognac. I quickly collect all my various knives and other weapons from their hiding places about the room and am just shoving the last of them into it when the king arrives.
I barely glance up from my packing.
He closes the door behind him. “Where are you going?” He tries to sound peremptory, but the words come out vaguely uneasy instead.
“I must get to Sybella.”
“I have not given you leave to go anywhere,” he replies.
I stop long enough to give him my full attention. “Then you will have to imprison me again—or kill me—for I will not rest until I have gotten her out of there.”
