He leans in close to whisper in my ear, “The deed is done, the proof exhibited, and I believe the duchess would benefit greatly from your company.”
I frown in confusion. “The regent expressly told me I was not to return until morning.”
He shakes his head in faint exasperation. “And when in the name of the Nine has that ever stopped you before?”
His words are as bracing as a slap to my cheek, chasing away the effects of the wine as well as the taste of defeat. Without another word, I lift my skirts and hurry toward the palace.
“Thank you for your hospitality to Lady Sybella,” Beast calls back to the others before catching up to me.
I glance at him. “You cannot accompany me to the duchess’s chambers.” Embarrassment at my obedience to the regent’s order makes my words more curt than I intend.
“No,” he agrees. “But I can see you safely to the grand salon and ensure you do not gut some witless Frenchman who is too dumb to steer clear of you tonight.”
My lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “You do have your purposes.”
“I like to think so.”
* * *
When I arrive at the queen’s chamber, I find her alone in bed while the three ladies in waiting assigned by Madame Regent busy themselves hanging up her cloth of gold wedding gown and being certain none of the seed pearls are in danger of coming loose.
I take one look at the new queen huddled against the pillows with the covers up to her chin, then spring into action. “Where is the bath?” I bark.
The other ladies turn and stare at me. “What bath?” the tallest one asks. “The regent did not order a bath.”
“The regent did not just endure her deflowering. Send for a hot bath, with lavender and comfrey.” They stare at me a long moment. I clap my hands at them. “Now!” I am shocked at how similar to the regent my own voice sounds.
Finally the featherbrained women begin to move. “And have these linens changed while the queen is at her bath.”
“But,” a small-faced woman protests, “she will be leaving for Plessis-lès-Tours in the morning,”
I draw to my full height so that I am towering over her. “But she must sleep in them tonight, and surely you would agree a new queen should not have to sleep in her own blood?”
The woman flinches and glances at the queen, finally remembering this is a young woman and not some pawn in a game of the regent’s. “Very well, my lady.”
Only when they have left and I am alone with the queen do I allow myself to approach the bed. She stares up at me, her brown eyes enormous in her pale face. “Thank you,” she whispers. Unexpectedly, she scoots over, making room for me to sit.
“Are you very uncomfortable?” I ask.
She wiggles around a little and grimaces. “Some.”
I nod. “A warm bath should help.”
She peers more closely at me, wrinkling her nose. “Lady Sybella, did you perchance fall into a vat of wine?”
I wince. “No, Your Majesty. ’Twas but a clumsy Frenchman who stumbled and spilled his wine on my gown.”
“Did he, now,” she muses dryly.
Just then the door opens and a throng of servants parade in bearing a copper tub, ewers of steaming water, and fresh bed linens. I help the queen into a robe and quickly braid her hair before wrapping it in a coil on the top of her head. When I am finished, the bath is ready and the last of the servants lingers at the door. “Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?”
It takes the queen a moment to realize he is talking to her. “No, that will be all. Thank you.”
When we are alone again, I take the robe from her shoulders and she steps into the bath, wincing a bit as the warm water reaches tender places.
I rack my mind for something comforting to tell her. Between my family and my work for the convent, I have far more experience with the unpleasant nature of the intimacies between the sexes rather than the gentler ones. “If he is a kind man, and I think he is, this should be the worst of it.”
She glances up, blushing. “I am glad to know it will get better. If it is like that every time, I am not sure how women can ever have any babies.”
Babies. My mind shies away from the word, and I abruptly turn and fetch the linen cloths from the washstand. “He was kind, was he not?” I dip one of the cloths in the warm water, then allow it to trickle down her back.
“He was, yes. Chivalrous, even, and seemed eager that I should be happy. Considering all the men who have laid claim to my hand, I should be—I am—relieved that he appears solicitous. It is just . . .” She shrugs her slender shoulders.
I do not know what makes me so certain what she is keeping herself from saying, but I lean down and whisper, “It is just that you are accustomed to ruling, taking your own council, giving the orders. And now it is hard to know how much of that will be left to you.”
She spins around to look at me. “Yes! That is exactly what I fear.”
My hand clenches around the wet cloth. The regent’s plan to weaken the queen’s faith in herself is already taking root. “In most men’s lives, there is room for only one woman from whom they will take counsel. We must ensure that woman is you and not his sister.”
“But can we do that? She has had his ear for so long. Overseen his education and been governing in his name for years.”
I begin scooping up the warm water once more. “And that will work in our favor, Your Grace. No young man—and certainly not a king—wishes to be under the thumb of his older sister. Especially one who made decisions he thought he should have been able to make himself. I imagine that we need only faintly fan those flames of resentment. Besides—” I stop, fearing I am about to go too far.
“Besides what?” the duchess prompts.
“I am not certain it is my place to say some of these things to you.” In truth, my upbringing probably demands that I be the last woman on earth to share such things with her.
“Who else will do it?” she asks fiercely. “My dead mother? Madame Dinan, who chose to betray me? The regent, who has only her own interests and love of power?” The duchess laughs, a fragile, bitter sound. “Her ladies in waiting whom she is trying to surround me with rather than my own? Of a certainty, they will not tell me.”
She is right. “Very well, Your Grace, but know that my view of the relations between men and women is somewhat . . . cynical and worldly.”
“It cannot be more cynical than being inspected like a brood mare or prize milking cow.”
“True enough. The other advantage you will have is that you are his young, nubile bride.” Her cheeks grow pink. “As such, you will offer the king certain advantages that a mere sister cannot. You will also have access to him in his more vulnerable moments, which can work in a woman’s favor.”
The queen sets her mouth in a resolute line, as if she has just been handed a weapon and is determined to use it to its best advantage.
“And lastly,” I continue, “if you give the king a son, he is sure to grant you high favor and indulge you whenever possible. Many men act thusly when presented with their first son, a king even more so.”
The water has begun to cool now, so I help her out of the tub and dry her with linen towels. She grimaces. “You were right. The bath did help.”
I pull back the clean linens on the bed and she climbs in. Unable to help myself, I tuck the covers up under her chin. “Is there anything else I can get, Your Majesty?” Her new title feels strange on my tongue and will take some getting used to.
“Stay, if you please. The king will not be returning. With my other ladies dismissed, there is no one else, and I would rather not be alone.”
Chapter 42
Genevieve
nce I am certain everyone is asleep for the night, I rise from my bed, wrap a thick cloak around my night shift, and slip into my boots. My excuse, should I meet anyone, is that I felt a need to pray in the chapel. It is well in keeping with my behavior of late.
; In the hallway outside Angoulême’s office, I pause to listen. It is as empty as a tomb and just as quiet. Reassured, I quickly open the door and step inside before shutting it softly behind me.
I have searched his study before, but not often. The risk is too great. But there are times, times when my lack of knowledge about my own circumstance becomes so overwhelming that I simply must know more than what he tells me.
It is also a good way to verify he is not withholding vital information. So far, he has been forthcoming with all that he knows.
But tonight I am here to examine his maps. I lift one of the cushions from the bench at the window and lay it along the bottom of the door so no light will leak out. When that is done, I go to the fireplace, strike the flint, and light a brace of candles.
His maps are carefully rolled and stacked in a stiff leather canister. I pull out the first one, carefully unrolling it. It is of Flanders and the surrounding area. I put it back and reach for another. It is the fourth one I find that shows the roads of France.
The wedding between the duchess and the king took place in Langeais. Louise told the other attendants that the royal couple would spend a month at the king’s castle at Plessis-lès-Tours, which is north and to the east of Cognac. I can travel north to Angers, then follow the Loire River to Plessis, but there is no main road, only a series of lesser ones that crisscross through the small towns and cities between here and the Loire.
Or I can travel east from Cognac to the city of Angoulême, where a main road runs directly north to Tours. The main road is faster. And my horses are in the city of Angoulême. With Angoulême and his men away until the new year, I do not have to worry about being recognized in that city. The main road is also more well traveled, making a lone traveler stand out less.
My route decided on, I try to etch the roads and rivers and towns upon my mind.
When I am certain I have the route memorized, I roll the map up and return it to its tub. As I turn to leave, my gaze falls on the intricately tooled leather box that Angoulême uses for storing correspondence. My fingers itch.
What if it holds additional correspondence from the convent? Or information on the puzzle that calls himself Maraud? It would be foolish to leave without searching it.
Inside is a thick stack of letters and messages. I set them on his desk, paying careful attention to the exact order and placement I found them in. The first message is from the king, announcing his intention to marry the duchess of Brittany. The second is from a General Cassel, reporting on the situation in Flanders. There is one from Viscount Rohan, inviting the count to his holding in Brittany. Indeed, there are dozens and dozens of letters, none of which has any bearing on the convent or the prisoner.
When I am nearly the bottom at the box, the big bold strokes of the regent’s handwriting catch my eye. I lift the parchment gently by the corners, noting that it is not signed. But the writing is most definitely hers. There is only one reason she would she send an unsigned letter.
Because she did not wish anyone to know it was from her.
With regards to your questions of the prisoner, he is to remain in your possession. Due to a shift in the political winds, it will be better if he is never released. It would be best for everyone concerned if he were simply forgotten. The king, especially, would be distraught to learn of his existence or the nature of his confinement. I cannot guess how the king would react if he knew you were the one to have treated him thus. Since he is in your custody, it behooves you to be certain the king never finds out.
Do not write again of this matter.
It does not mention Maraud by name, but the date, the circumstances, and the instructions all fit with what he has told me. Indeed, it is nearly as cryptic as his own story, but verifies his claims to some degree. I wonder if he knows it was the regent’s orders that landed him in the oubliette? Or that the king would be distraught to learn of his very existence? Surely the king would not be distraught over a simple mercenary being treated in such a manner.
While the letter does not contradict anything Maraud has said, neither does it shed further light on the subject. So far, he has kept every promise he has made. Honored every condition he has agreed to. And yet . . . and yet I feel there is more to all of this than I can see. If he is doing those things, it is because it serves his own purpose. Whether that purpose is merely to stay alive one day longer or something else altogether remains to be seen.
Chapter 43
Sybella
am awake before the regent’s attendants come in to wait upon the queen—but just barely. My head feels as if it is inhabited by a dozen goldsmiths’ hammers, and my mouth tastes like something from the bottom of a watering trough. I have only just straightened my hair and gown and am assisting the queen from the bed while trying not to retch when they descend upon us; a loud, brightly colored flock of birds chirping and twittering, their beady eyes everywhere at once.
The tiny hammers in my head swell to the size of a blacksmith’s mallet. Fortunately, we do not have time to linger, as the queen would like to bid her council members farewell. They are not to travel with us any further, but will remain here and avail themselves of the king’s hospitality before they return to Brittany.
It is a hard goodbye, made even harder by the keen, inquisitive scrutiny of the regent’s attendants. I hang back somewhat, as I have still not forgiven the councilors for the indignities the queen has had to suffer. Chancellor Montauban, the Prince of Orange, and the Bishop of Rennes all stand soberly as their new queen approaches them. “I cannot thank you all enough.” She speaks in a low voice that frustrates the attempts of others to overhear. “For all that you have done to get me here. I am only sorry I cannot bring every one of you with me.”
The chancellor takes her outstretched hand and bows low over it. “It is my most fervent wish that you will not have need of us in your new life, Your Majesty.”
The queen smiles. “Your counsel and loyalty will always have a place in my life, my lord.”
When she turns to the Prince of Orange, he astonishes us all—himself included—and pulls the queen into a quick embrace. “Take care, dear cousin. You are queen of France, and no one can naysay you now.”
She nods at him, then turns to the short, red-robed Bishop of Rennes. He clasps her hands in his. “Take care, dear child. Remember to trust in God and say your prayers, and all shall be as He wills it.”
It is all I can do not to roll my eyes at his words. Every step of the way he has claimed that God willed it, never mind that it was the saints—and their followers—who wrested this victory for the duchess in the end.
To my great delight, I learn that Father Effram will be traveling with us as the queen’s personal confessor. His eyes twinkle as he informs us of this, and I cannot think of a more compassionate, morally nimble confessor to have interceding on one’s behalf.
And then the regent arrives, sweeping into the courtyard like an ill wind in a long, ermine-lined riding cloak. When it is clear that she is alone, the queen frowns, perplexed. “Where is the king?”
“I am afraid he had to leave earlier this morning, Your Majesty.”
Chancellor Montauban eyes the regent unhappily. “He will not be escorting Her Majesty himself?”
She dismisses his question with a cool glance. “As I said, he has already left.”
“Surely, after the attack . . .” Father Effram ventures.
The regent turns a gimlet eye upon him. My bilious stomach and pounding head are grateful that it is he who has asked the question this time and not me. “She will be perfectly safe.”
“It is fortunate, then, that she travels with her queen’s guard.” The chancellor refrains from pointing out it was the very one the regent tried to dismiss. Which is no doubt why he is chancellor and I am not.
The regent’s gaze goes immediately to where Beast waits along with the eight other guards, resplendent in their chain mail and white tabards. She wants to argue. But why? A
nd how in the name of the saints will the king and queen have any chance to establish affection for each other, let alone trust, with this interfering woman following them on their honeymoon, sticking her long nose between them at every opportunity?
The interfering woman gives an elegant shrug. “They are welcome to ride with us.”
Beast does not argue. He does not need to. His implacable will and enormous bulk are argument enough.
* * *
Even though we are traveling along the Loire, in the heart of France owned by the king, I cannot relax and enjoy the morning’s ride. My glance darts to the surrounding woods, wondering who might be hiding there. I hold my breath every time we cross a bridge, bracing myself for another ambush. And every few minutes, I must seek out those I love, counting them like a farmwife counts her chickens, needing to be certain they’re still safe.
I am so busy watching for danger that I do not see it when it slips up next to me on a white palfrey. “Why so ill at ease, Lady Sybella?’
The regent’s voice at my elbow causes my shoulders to tense, as if waiting for a blow. “I am sorry, Madame, I did not hear you approach.”
“I daresay,” she murmurs wryly. “You were too busy gaping at every leaf that rustles in the wind. I would like to know why.”
“It may have something to do with recently being ambushed.” My voice is tarter than verjuice.
“You Bretons do like to harp on that, don’t you? Does your queen’s guard not make you feel safe? If not, what use are they?”
“They are the only thing that gives me peace of mind.”
The regent’s nostrils flare, but she lets the matter drops and abruptly changes the subject. “Who are the two young girls riding with the other attendants?”
Her words land like heavy rocks in my already queasy stomach. “They are two young women the queen has agreed to foster at court.”
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