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He places the vial of scent back on the tray with such force that I fear it has shattered. He looks at the wall behind me with such thinly disguised longing and revulsion that it is all I can do not to glance over my shoulder.
“You did not know?” I am so surprised by my realization that it comes out as a whisper.
“It is my kingdom! Are you suggesting I do not know what transpires in it?”
“Of course not, Your Majesty, but the regent has been known to—”
“I am the one asking the questions. You speak at my sufferance.”
The words are so out of character for him, so completely outside any way he has ever acted before, that my mouth snaps shut. I lower my eyes. “But of course. I am here to serve you.”
He casts a sullen glance my way. “But are you?” His voice is low and still thrums with anger.
“Yes,” I say simply. “It has always been my intent. The convent’s as well.”
“They sent you to my bed?”
“No, they sent me to serve you. That was my only instruction.”
He takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he pinches the bridge of his nose. When he looks up again, there are so many emotions and conflicts seething in his gaze that I cannot identify any of them. “What am I to do with you?”
“What do you mean, Your Majesty?” I keep my voice light and innocent, as if I am not fearing punishment with every breath I take.
“I mean, I have longed for you for years, finally have you, and now I find it has been like wanting a piece of rotten fruit.”
I want to bristle at the comparison, but his mood leaves no room for such indulgences. “Rotten, my lord?” I give thanks that I have had years of experience practicing my sheep’s face.
“Yes.” He steps closer and places a finger in the hollow of my throat, one of the most vulnerable of spots on the human body. The touch is in such contrast to his mood that it is hard not to flinch. “Since you seem to know so very much, tell me.” His fingers drift upward. “What moves has your convent made against France?”
When his fingers tighten around my chin, it is all I can do not to grab him, throw him to the ground, and leave him gasping for breath. But it would not do anything to help me fix what I have broken. And while I am perfectly happy to leave him on the floor, it is not fair for others to have to clean up my mess. I will wear this mask a little longer. “None that I know of, Your Majesty.”
“Then why were you sent here?”
Small truths, I remind myself. “I have asked myself that question for many years now, sire. At first, I thought we were to collect information—”
“A spy.” His fingers tighten, not in threat, but in anger.
I shrug. “All kingdoms spy. However, we were also given instructions to not risk exposing ourselves by reaching out to the convent, so any information we gathered was essentially useless. It was more to educate ourselves on the leanings of the French court.”
“What information did you learn here at court, Genevieve?”
What to tell him? The truth of the last three days or the lie I believed until then?
I remember the look on his face a moment ago—the gaping hole he himself cannot see. Mayhap that is a path out of this mess. The one crack in his defenses that I can slip through. “I learned that Your Majesty is honorable and chivalrous. More so than your advisors—especially your sister—would have you be. I learned that you have a formidable will and a mind of your own. You do what you think is right, no matter others’ opinions.”
His grip on my chin loosens to the point of a caress. “Flattery,” he scoffs, but that does not hide the hunger I see there. The need he has for someone to recognize his independence and good intentions.
“Far more than flattery, Your Majesty. Did you not free the Duke of Orléans from his cruel captivity and restore his lands to him? Did you not choose peace through marriage rather than raining war down on innocent people?” His hand drops to his side, and he straightens. “Did you not rule in favor of your queen, allowing her to keep her vow to her lady and thus her honor?”
His mouth twists with bitterness. “Do not speak of the Lady Sybella to me.”
“I believe it was one of your finest moments, sire.” Indeed, from my new vantage point, it may be his only one.
He looks out the window. “Dammit, Genevieve, I trusted you!”
“And I you, Your Majesty. I still do.”
He rounds on me. “How long have you known the Lady Sybella?”
“I have never seen her until yesterday morning when she appeared at my door and introduced herself. I left the convent long before she arrived. In truth, I have spent as much time here at court as I did at the convent. I arrived when I was seven and left when I was twelve. I’ve been at court for five years now. The convent is no more than a distant memory, like family one has not seen in years. And as for having taken any moves against the crown?” I laugh. “I have done nothing but serve you and Madame with every breath I have taken. Indeed, that was my order from the convent—to do precisely that. That was the only order, my lord. And I have carried it out faithfully.”
“Are there more like you?”
I hesitate. But Margot has chosen her own fate and is long gone from this earth. Telling the truth will cost her nothing and could help the others. “There was one other. The Lady Margot.”
He tilts his head at the name. “Have I met her?”
“Yes, my lord, when she served the regent here at court. She was sent with Louise and me to Angoulême. But it is of no matter any longer. She is dead now.”
His lip curls in disgust but also, I think, to hide his fear. “Did you kill her?”
“Saints, no!” The accusation stings all the more for being the second time it has been made. “She did not die by anyone’s hand, but in the most ordinary of ways. While giving birth to a man’s bastard.”
He looks doubtful. “What man?”
“Count Angoulême.”
He draws a sharp intake of breath. “So you deceived him, too.” The words are spoken softly, almost as if to comfort himself rather than extract information from me, so I remain silent. “What other actions have you taken against the crown since you’ve been here?”
“I have not taken any actions.”
“Other than deceiving me.”
“None, sire.”
“You were never ordered to raise your hand against me or anyone here at court?”
“No, Your Majesty. I will swear it on the Holy Bible, on any of the Church fathers’ relics, before the cross that hangs in the church.
Take your pick. But I have never acted against you or Madame or anyone here in France.” I do not think relieving a courtier or two of an occasional stiletto or bauble can truly be counted as acting against France.
He grows still. “Does my sister know of your involvement with the convent?”
He has not told her. Even so, the ice beneath my feet is so thin I can hear it begin to crack. “No, Your Majesty. I . . . do not know if she even knows that it exists.”
He studies me a long moment, as if trying to pull the truth from my soul. “Good. Do not speak to anyone of this, not of Sybella, nor your involvement in the convent. You do not fully comprehend all that has been set in motion. If they were to learn of your involvement, I’m not sure even I could protect you.”
Does he mean to protect me from whatever political repercussions the convent’s presence creates? Yes. But not Sybella. He intends to use her as the whipping boy for my sins.
“For now,” he continues, “you may return to your quarters.”
Outrage and frustration at the sheer wrongness of what he is doing keep me rooted to the spot. He looks up. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. And thank you for showing me such mercy.”
He says nothing, but jerks his head toward the door.
* * *
When I am halfway back to my chamber, the regent swoops down on me like a vulture on a carcass. “You were supposed to keep the king happy,” she hurls at me. “Instead, he is in a foul, melancholic humor. What transpired between you?”
The sheer boldness of the question nearly causes me to blush. I look down and begin fiddling with the trimming on my skirt. “I’m not sure what you mean, Madame. The king seemed most pleased—”
“Do not play games with me,” she says impatiently. “What did you discuss? Did he share any of his current thoughts or troubles? Whom has he been speaking with of late?”
“Our conversation was of a much more intimate nature.”
“When did you leave? Was there time for anyone else to come to his chambers after you left?”
