Inside the antechamber, the two armed guards draped in red and gold tabards stood silent and purposeful, completely unaware of the incident in the corridor. Not that they would have come to her defense had they known—they were members of the royal garde du corps. They would die before leaving the queen’s side.
She pushed on the inner doors and entered.
A waft of soft heat from the fire greeted her. Five ladies-in-waiting, clad only in their white linen night rails and silk slippers, were loosely gathered around the huge platform bed in the center of the room, chatting in quiet undertones.
Gisele de Noyon, the mistress of the robes, scurried to her side. She snatched the fish from Caitrina’s hands, irritation evident in the deep creases on her brow. “Mon dieu!You lazy wench. Did you stop to stare at the moon? Martine was right. I should have sent a maid.”
“The kitchens are on the far side of the abbey,” Caitrina reminded her.
But she need not have bothered. Gisele had already spun about and sailed for the bed. The heavy velvet draperies hung open on one side, revealing the young queen, reclined upon a sea of embroidered pillows. A broad smile spread across Yolande’s face as she spied the fish, and she eagerly accepted a silver spoon with which to eat. She had the spoon poised above the bowl, about to partake, when she suddenly lifted her gaze and stared across the room.
“Caitrina,” she called. “Come.”
The informal summons earned Caitrina a glare from Gisele. Ladies-in-waiting were typically addressed by their titles, and the queen rarely strayed from that etiquette. Except with her cousin.
Avoiding the censure in Gisele’s eyes, Caitrina crossed to the bed with as much speed as decorum would allow and curtsied. “How may I serve you, Your Grace?”
“Lady Gisele has assured me that no food would be brought to me without being tasted,” Yolande said, gently caressing her mounded belly with her free hand. “But I need to hear that assurance from your own lips. For the sake of my prince.”
Her fears were not groundless. Some months before, a fiend had attempted to poison the queen and her unborn child—and very nearly succeeded. “You have my word,” said Caitrina. “I woke the cook, and he tasted the fish himself, right before my eyes.”
Satisfied, the queen’s spoon dipped into the bowl and scooped up a small portion of the flaky fish. It went into her mouth, and Yolande’s eyes closed briefly as she savored her midnight meal. “Perfect,” she murmured after the mouthful was consumed. Then she emptied the bowl in a series of delicate but eager bites.
Gisele removed the bowl to a side table and one of the other ladies offered the queen a lavender-scented cloth to wipe her lips. Now replete, the queen laid her head back. “I wish to rest.”
Caitrina was about to step away when the queen’s eyes popped open and she grabbed Caitrina’s hand. “Tomorrow, we will talk, my little cousin. You have been a true comfort to me these past months since my Alexander’s death.”
“I live to serve you, Your Grace.”
“We will require a lady of the nursery,” the queen said, her eyelids drooping. “Someone who will put the needs of the new prince above all else. You have proven your loyalty time and again, and I can think of none better to entrust my babe and his future.”
Caitrina felt, rather than saw, the stabbing glance from Gisele. “Would you not wish to appoint a woman with more experience, Your Grace? A woman with children of her own?”
“Nay,” the queen said, allowing her eyes to close on a soft sigh. “An unwed woman is best. The lady of the nursery should have no other claims on her attention.” She released Caitrina’s hand. “But we will speak more on this tomorrow.”
Bowing deeply, Caitrina stepped back.
The other ladies closed in, tucking the sheets around the queen and lowering the drapes.
Lady of the nursery. How incredible. She’d never imagined the queen would honor her with such an appointment. Especially now. If Yolande had any inkling of the conversation in the corridor, she’d have Caitrina wrapped in chains and thrown into the dungeon. And rightly so. Disloyalty and treason should never be rewarded, no matter how fine the intentions were.
With her heart beating a heavy march, Caitrina reached into the neckline of her gown and pulled out the feather-soft item Giric had tucked there. It was a lock of hair, bound with a piece of hemp. Gleaming, nut-brown hair, with a slight curl. Caitrina’s breath caught in her throat.
Marsailli’s hair.
It had been hacked roughly from her sister’s head, the shorn edges uneven and varied in length—a rather obvious threat: steal the bairn, or your sister will suffer. Giric probably intended the hair to be a mild warning, but the sight of it stabbed Caitrina deep in the chest. It was one thing to shear a man’s hair, but a woman’s? Giric might just as well have laid Marsailli’s cheek open with a blow or broken her nose. Her sister’s beauty would be marred for some time to come.
Giric was truly a monster.
And he now had control over her sweet, innocent Marsailli.
Caitrina lifted her gaze to the queen’s bed. The ladies-in-waiting were blowing out candles and returning to their pallets. As fearful as she was to defy the Bear, the time had come for action. She could not allow Marsailli to remain in that wretch’s clutches. Nor could she bring herself to steal Yolande’s precious babe.
Nay.
She must find her sister and determine some way to outwit Giric.
***
